


Aftermath

by abreathofthewild



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Breath of the Wild Sequel, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Grief/Mourning, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Multi, Post BotW, Post-Breath of the Wild, Romance, War, postgame, zelink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-08-26 12:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abreathofthewild/pseuds/abreathofthewild
Summary: Sealed as though he may be, the effects of Calamity Ganon over the past century still linger throughout Hyrule Kingdom.Zelda and Link struggle to find their footing throughout their journeys across Hyrule with little guidance. To rebuild the Kingdom, the pair must forge new paths and gain renewed status - all whilst dealing with a newfound threat.Post-Calamity Zelink story, based on info from E3.





	1. Reconciliation

Her body was basking in the morning sunlight as she allowed herself to finally breathe, for the land around her and the  _realm_ in it's entirety was finally calm.

Her golden hair conformed to her curves in the wind, and her feet sunk into the earth beneath her, the tall blades of grass tickling at her fragile porcelain skin. She was no longer a spirit holding back Calamity Ganon, but a free woman left to return to her Kingdom, once again.

He stood several steps behind her, dressed in his casual but clad attire; striding the royal blue Champion's tunic familiar to them both, along with a golden circlet entailed with diamonds, crowning his head like that of a royal. His long bangs almost covered his eyes, and yet, his gaze never left her stature—watching her petite frame as still as the sands; her hair blowing in the wind, revealing the tiniest segments of her pale skin to his peeving eyes. Her face, her body, her voice—all so  _real_ , and yet, so distant; as all he knew of her was comprised of past memories, envisioned a century ago.

 

It was peaceful between them, for the few agonising seconds which seemed to drag on for minutes, and yet, she couldn't bring herself to turn and face him. She couldn't muster the energy, the will to move a single muscle in her body, despite the burning want to do the opposite.

The feeling of his presence mere steps away from her own was more than enough to make her heart pound in her chest and ricochet at her ribcage; choking her as it wanted to escape at her throat. He was the one who made her heart soar time and time again, and yet, he was also the one she feared, or rather, she feared that he would fall victim to the calamity once more.

She dreaded to see his stoic figure behind her, struggling to stand as he laid in the filth of his own blood-stained clothes alike those of a century ago. She dreaded to catch him in her arms as he staggered to the ground, drawing his last ragged breath in her embrace, yet again. And yet, despite such thoughts—she knew everything was fine. She knew that the battle was finally over, and that it had been won by none other than  _him_ ; her appointed knight; the promised hero of the prophecy whom wield the sword forged by the Goddesses.

Finally, clasping her hands together at her chest, she opened her mouth to speak. With a single exhale, the words she had been wanting to tell him for a century escaped her lips.  
"…I've been keeping watch over you all this time," she began with a hitched breath. "I've witnessed your struggles to return to us, as well as your trials battle."

His feet grazed the earth's surface beneath them as he made his way toward her, eventually coming to a stop, a distance barely out of each other's grasp.

"I always thought… no," she shook her head, correcting herself. "I always  _believed—_ that you would find a way to defeat Ganon," she murmured. "I never lost faith in you over these many years…"

Shakily, she finally forced herself to face him. Her worries were shattered as she looked him up and down with her deep emerald eyes. There was still blood; that, she couldn't deny, and he seemed exhausted, physically and mentally. And yet, it was nothing compared to the last time she was physically within his presence. Even now, he was knocked down in battle, and yet, he stood back up again, as if unscathed; with a newfound strength and power unlike that of a century ago. He looked into her eyes, a meek smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She in turn smiled back, wiping away a few small tears forming in her eyes with the back of her hand _—sniffling_  before regaining her composure, returning his gaze endearingly, a rosy discolouration forming across her cheeks.

She breathed, "Thank you, Link… the Hero of Hyrule." It was a moment of revelation; for the battle was finally over. The fighting, the loss, it was all over—and yet, an overwhelming fear began to dote within her, the choking  _want_  to be remembered by him. A voice inside of her, her consciousness, knew that she had to ask him.

So hesitantly, shakily, and against her protests, she opened her mouth to muster the courage; and the words escaped her, against her jurisdiction. "May I ask… do you really remember me?"

His feet moved on their own, involuntarily. Lowering himself to a kneel before her, his feet encompassed by the soft blades of grass, he took her petite right hand into both of his own calloused palms. He looked up into her eyes, rays of beaming sunlight beating down against his sun-kissed skin, coating his deep sapphire eyes with an overpowering glare. He feared he would be unable to say the words he knew she wanted to hear, for part of his memory was still shattered beyond comprehension, and yet, she understood him; his suggestive gaze telling her what she already knew. So she fell onto her knees with him, wrapping her free hand around both of his which gripped her own ever so tightly.

* * *

They made their way to the castle atop Link's steed, the sun at the highest point in the sky by the time they arrived. It left little of the realm to be overcast with shadow, revealing it's true splendour—even after the century of destruction that had been unleashed. The warmth in the air began to rise as the breeze sifted around them with ease, flowing through their hair.

He extended a hand to her from below as she lay seated atop his horse, gripping the saddle. Link's steed, a chocolate-brown stallion with a hefty figure and lengthened hide snorted fiercly, stomping it's hooves into the stones restlessly, unleveling dust and pebbles with impatience and frustration. She soothes the steed with her spare hand, stroking it's slick ashen mane, and in the other, she took his nervously, slowly lowering herself off of the horse.

Her balance faltered the moment her feet touched the stone pavement beneath them both. He grabbed her before she fell, pulling her toward him in a warm embrace, his fingers intertwining around the small of her back to hold her steadily. She trembled in his hold; restlessly gripping and pulling at his tunic as her tears began to flow copiously; staining the royal blue they held so dear.

She never cried—not until the events of the Calamity, and now. Her heart wreathed at the sight around them, along with the memories of the past, now rushing back to her like a flow of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She had seen the ruin of the castle through the eyes of the Goddesses who watched over Link along his journeys, but seeing it with her own eyes was a different experience; an experience which overwhelmed her with an unexplainable sorrow; a heart-wrenching pain. It was from finally realising the true destruction of what originally stood tall as the pivot of the Kingdom; Hyrule Castle; now  _her_ castle, dwindled to nothing more than the shell of former architecture—a reminiscence to the past. 

She began to hear the voices of those who fell a century ago and to see their faces vividly within her mind—misguiding and blinding her thoughts. The faces and voices of the five Champions she personally appointed; the same Champions she formed unbreakable bonds with, including Link himself. The faces of the friends, those whom she considered family that she had across the realm, including Impa; mostly all whom have long passed and lived long, prosperous lives without her. They whisper to her tantalising, scrutinising words which remind her of her own failures—for her incompetence resulted in their deaths, and her century of solitude to atone for it.

 

He held her until she calms and her trembling dwindles to mere shivers.

With a heavy sigh, he released his hold on her, and she pushed herself away from him—her gaze lowering to her right hand where the symbol of the tri-force lay permanently engraved as a scar from battle. "I'm not a Princess—not anymore," she shakes her head. "I am nothing more and nothing less than a failure, bestowed with the name Zelda which the Kingdom recognises as royalty…

"I couldn't even awaken my own powers," she whimpered, cupping her face in her hands to hide her tears. Eventually, she lowered her hands, letting one fall limply to her side as she raised the other to her chest, feeling the slight vibrations and echo of her heartbeat, mostly, at the thought of him. "And you..." she began, her gaze landing upon his figure, planted in the centre of his chest. "You have done your duty, and yet you stay by my side," she says pensively, a slight furrow forming between her eyebrows.

He looked at her, sword in hand before giving her a slight shrug and proceeding to walk past her.

Swiftly, she turns, reaching out to catch him, but failing. "Why is that?"

He froze on the spot, looking over his shoulder as she beckoned toward him. He turned, taking a few steps toward her until they were arm-length apart, allowing him to place his hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze, as if she could break from the slightest touch. He looked into her eyes, a dark expression painting them; his eyebrows furrowed in a sort of pitiful grimace; the sort of expression that would scare either a friend or foe—that is, if they didn't know him like  _she_  did. "I'm not leaving," he whispered.

Even with such simple words, she felt the kindness lingering within them as they striked her eardrums. Squinting her eyes shut, she cries, her fists clenched together by her sides as she reminisced in the warmth that seeped through his fingers to her bare skin.

"Then, please… help me," she begs him between sobs.

He takes her hand in his and nods, pulling her toward the entrance of the castle where the pivot stood tall, overlooking the kingdom. Through the metal gates, now laid upon the stone pavement as a shell, she looked up toward the throne room which was once her home, towering over them in height and glory. For a brief second, she believed that she saw the embers of the spirits of the Champions and her father—she could imagine them looking down upon her with proud-stricken smiles as her duty was finally upheld. Just as the thought entranced her, the embers dispersed toward the centre of the castle, toward it's depths—leaving nothing but a small trail of azure dust. 

* * *

The wind passed through the midline shift of the Dueling Peaks, making it's way toward the stable and the surrounding fields. She watched him from a distance, nuzzling and whispering coaxing words to her newly appointed mare. It was... one of the more childish things she's seen him do, but nevertheless, it didn't surprise her.

The mare, a pure white with creme blonde hair was believed to be a descendant of the one whom lived prosperously, a century ago. The mare looked so similar to her previous mount, that trivially, for a few brief seconds, she believed the mare to be the exact steed she rode a century ago on her travels. As she approached, she noticed the fine differences; her hand sifting through the long coat, as opposed to short. Blue eyes, like Link's, as opposed to green, like hers. Black-strewn hooves, as opposed to dark, chocolate brown.

She offered an apple to the mare in her hand, which it accepted, nuzzling and licking at the residue remaining on her palm. All the while, Link worked at outfitting the mare; somehow coming out from a discussion with one of the elderly stablemen, holding the exact royal saddle and bridle her own steed strided pridefully a century ago. He polished it with the seams of his tunic, removing a few age and mould spots before throwing it over the steed gracefully; working around the mare and fastening it's belts all the while. If the white coating of the horse wasn't aiming to give her enough attention, the royal colours of the saddle and bridle was surely the icing on the cake. She would have opted for something more basic, less eye-grabbing, like what his own steed next to hers wears; travellers gear, knapsacks and blankets tied on the sides and ends of the saddle—but she was too nice to tear down such a significant gesture, to tell him to stop after he had already started. She didn't have the will to tear down his pride.

* * *

Link's quaint house, a brick laid cottage along the edges of Hateno Village remained barely unchanged and untouched over the time of a century. A bit of ivy growth and mould here and there, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a day's work, she thought. It was on the finer side of architecture and housings, given what they had seen on their ways.

The features were mostly identical. A single bed, contained upstairs in the loft. A timid gas stove, a few pots and pans buried to the side within crates filled to the brim with grain and spoiled fruit and vegetables. A small bathhouse behind the housing, which one would have to walk in the freezing cold to reach during winter for the most trivial of tasks. A creaky wooden staircase with several repair sites, pieces of discoloured wood nailed into the dark oak. And finally, an old wooden table with matching furnishings filled with natural spirals and knife etchings as a result of both boredom, sorrow and anger. It felt like home; the beige lined walls with age spots and the dark oak frames and floors complimented by the morning sunshine that beamed through the glass-paned windows providing her a strong sense of familiarity. The location itself provided her a secluded place to rest, recuperate and most importantly; reconcile.

So of course, when they arrived, two days after the events of the treacherous calamity; he offered the bed to her. A lone wolf who would much rather prefer absence in her presence, he insisted to sleep downstairs, or even outside. A kind gesture, as if she was his guest. As if she was just visiting for a while. His normal, shy nature, insistent on putting her needs first. She settled for sleeping by his side in the overly-comfortably sized bed; her back barely touching his as they laid facing opposite directions of each other. If he was against it, he certainly didn't show it with his nonchalant facial expressions.

One thing that did show, at least to herself, was her inability to sleep. Insomnia, of sorts. She thought she would be tired, that she would fall asleep in the blink of an eye the moment her head hit the comfortable futon, and yet, there she lay, staring across the room amid the dim moonlight. She was distracted by the sounds; the wind brushing past the windows, scraping at the glass with a nerve-spiking eeriness. The restless chirping of crickets off in the distance. The leaky faucet downstairs. His breathing and the subtle rise and fall of his supine chest which would just barely rustle his clothes and the blanket they shared.

He, in contrast, slept. He didn't wake up the next morning, nor the second. She monitored his breathing and pulse every few waking minutes she was within his presence, fearing that he has left her; that he has fallen victim to the Calamity that has now passed, leaving her to fend for herself; much like a foal rejected by it's mother, she thought.

So, in attempts to pass time, she read books. The same book passing through her palms, at least twice. She tidied his wounds, perfecting her dressings and herbal concoctions in her, or rather  _his_ mortar and pestle, like an art. She cleaned the house from it's dust-strewn shelves, neatening everything into an orderly fashion. She gardened, fussily picking a fresh handful of flowers to place in the vase on the bedside table every morning. She did their laundry, bucking and scrubbing at her old prayer robes and his tunic in a wooden pail and sifter at the pond to the left of the house. She bonded with her horse and Link's, tied to the stable stalls conveniently placed beside the house; feeding them more than their needed share of apples and carrots, weaving nearby flowers into her mare's mane as she worked on a braid. If there was nothing left to do, she sat down and studied the Sheikah Slate to her limited abilities, writing notes on spare pieces of parchment paper lying around the cavern.

Eventually, the time came when she ran out of the necessities, and she knew she needed to visit the village.

The shopkeeper looked her up and down as she entered the shop shakily, a pensive look across her face as if she had seen a ghost. He chewed a piece of wheat head in his mouth, a woven straw hat atop his head, his red plaid shirt half un-buttoned at the crest.

"Ah. It's you. I heard 'yer with Link," he greeted her gleefully as he chewed, leaning against the counter wall.

Her hand went to grab one of the woven baskets by the door as she strided over to pick out the few ammenities and necessities she knew would get her by. She looked up at him and scratched her head awkwardly, smiling as best as she could within that moment, holding the basket situated on her hip.

"That's me," she said with a smile, continuing to browse the items on the shelves.

"You here on business or sum'n?"

 _You could call it that,_  she thought to herself. "Yes. I'm not from... here, though."

"Well that's nice. 'Tis always nice ta' see new faces, y'know? He's pre' good with a sword, so I pay 'em to do my dirty work sometimes. And I don't mean murder or anythin'. I just don't take a likin' to guttin' my livestock. He does it for the shepherds up on the hill for a quick rupee, too," he rambled, crossing his hands in front of his chest, nodding at his own words. "Whadabout you? You also a sword kinda gal?"

Zelda froze. She was partially flattered he would assume she would be good with a sword, nevertheless in battle; especially seeming she is female—given the stigma attached to women in combat. All she would know about it as of yet would be to stick them with the pointy end. So she shook her head, laughing insincerely, "I'm just a friend. I'm not particularly good at anything."

He nods, eying her intently. They met at the counter, and he listed her items, counting them on each of his fingers. He then came to a revelation, his index pointed to the ceiling. "Ah! I forgot sum'n," he almost yelled, startling her. He ducked below the counter shelf, heaving a woven basket much like the one she held filled with grain toward her. She grabbed it, not compensating for it's weight before lodging it into the side of her hip. She proceeds to pack and prod her own items into the basket, forcing them into the cracks so she wouldn't have to make two trips. "Fruit and vegetables went a bit rotten so a' removed ‘em.” Was suppose to give it to 'em last week, but he wasn't home."

She looked at the basket, and then up at him. "We... no, my apologies.  _He_  was busy." Busy, yes.

She recalled him standing in the centre of the blood and malice stained atrium, shield and sword at the ready, cutting and severing various pieces of flesh with the ominous, potent smell of metal filling their nostrils. He's heaving, breathing heavily as if enlightened by a fire, and there's lightning in his beaming sapphire eyes as he stares down Ganon's atrocious physical embodiment, head to toe. He's wiping the sweat off of his forehead, sternly gripping the master sword in his hand as he does; pulsating a radiant sapphire matching his hasty pulse as he raises it skyward; readying himself to deliver the final blow.

 

The moon had not long risen over the town on the third day, providing an unusual chill to the air as night descended over the realm. Link was still where she left him, laying in the comforting bed upstairs in the cottage secluded from society. He was restless; the quilt tangled between his lower legs, the pillow leaning against the wall, an atrocious bedhead atop his skull, and yet, he still showed no signs of waking.

She lit the gas stove downstairs after doing her routine observations, stirring rice grains in an old casket pot with a dainty wooden ladle as instructed by the old musky-smelling cooking book she found lying in Link's storage. When finished, she ate her serve as she rocked in a creaky wooden rocking chair in front of the lit fireplace—lavishing in the warmth of the flames and the blanket cradling her, envying Link's cooking skills as she coughed and spluttered after each bite of her own cooking. Partially in disgust at her lack of skills, partially at the lack of flavour. When she is done, she positions one arm on her knee, resting her head in the crook of her palm. The other pokes and prods at the fire aimlessly with an iron stoker, staring into it's flames and embers as they disperse into the air; ash slowly piling up beneath the logs.

Eventually, he began to rise, restlessly tugging and pulling at the sheets and blankets lining the bed upstairs. Zelda hears the sound of rustling sheets along with his ragged breaths which she recalls so clearly, and she rushed up the stairs—her eyes instantaneously widening at the sight beholding her. She looks down at him in pure shock as he sweats and struggles, gripping at the Master Sword, attempting to unsheathe it from it's scabbard. He grunts and groans, eventually screaming and yelling inaudible words in what sounds like a combination of both anger and sorrow from the thoughts currently taunting him. She climbs on top of him, yelling at him and shaking him in attempts to wake him from the never-ending nightmare he is in. She cries, her tears falling onto his cheeks as she tries to pry the sword's hilt from his fingers. She had to encourage him, yell at him and pry the sword from his overpowering grip for at least ten minutes straight, emphasising that the battle is over, it had been won by none other than them. Finally, he opened his eyes, releasing the sword; allowing it to fall down onto his bare chest.

After that, he slept for another day; awakening to the smell of burnt eggs and intoxicating smoke alike that of the atrium. She hears him hastily running down the stairs toward her, his bare feet padding against the creaky wooden floorboards, and she turns to him with a welcoming smile, ignoring the flame enlightening greater below the pan.

He runs past her, grabbing the handle of the pan and running out the door. Without a second thought, he hucks it's contents off into the grass; allowing a flock of crows to swarm around it like vultures. She stares at him in shock, disbelief and anger. "I... I was fixing it," she muttered under her breath. He shook his head, pointing to the charred bottom of the pan; a small, oblivious hole forming within it's centre.

He fixes her something to eat, the aroma of both burnt eggs and spice wafting around the room as he worked at the pan carefully; adding mushrooms, garlic and onion along with a sprinkle of Goron spice for flavour. He cut several pieces of bread from a fresh loaf which laid in the woven-basket to the side before he popped them into the pan, soaking up the oils and left-over grittle. When complete, he placed her serve in front of her, immediately digging into his own like a starved carnivore.

"I thought I had it," she says, cutting into the yolk of her perfectly oval-shaped sunny-side-up egg, letting it seep into the whites and down onto the bread's crevices.

With his mouth full of food, he pauses; only to roll his eyes shake his head at her as he resumes eating by large mouthfuls. He eats the leftovers from the pans and pots, scraping the juices off of the sides with his fingers; proceeding to shove his fingers into his mouth, knuckle deep, like a child without proper table etiquette. When he is done smacking and licking at his lips, bread crumbs remaining around his mouth, he watches as she places her cutlery neatly in the centre of her plate; wiping her mouth delicately with a spare handkerchief. 

His gaze wafts off to the weapon mounts behind her, the tributes perfectly positioned on their frames. The Champion's Weapons, which pay tribute to their past lives. Daruk's Boulder Breaker wielded with strength, Revali's Great Eagle Bow flown with confidence, Mipha's Lightscale Trident held with wisdom, and lastly, Urbosa's vibrant shield, the Daybreaker, along with her Scimitar of the Seven strewn with courage.

He goes to speak, but she interrupts. "I saw them. They were the first thing I noticed," she says, looking over her shoulder in his direction.

With a sigh, he lowers his head; shaking it. She could hear him swear under his breath, apologising as his hands went into his hear.

She shakes her head at him. "Don’t be sorry. It gave me proper means to reconcile—to grieve. I had the time, after all," she looks down, twiddling her fingers in her lap. "I just wish they were still here."

He slowly walks toward her, reaching out to grab her hand. He pulls it toward him, planting her palm in the centre of his bare chest, unphazed by the touch. He doesn't have to tell her, because she already knows. The memories of the champions themselves are in their hearts. 

She pulls her hand away, allowing it to fall to her side. "There is no more time for grieving. Not yet, when there is so much to do, and we have already wasted... four, no, five days. Purah, I heard, lives here, so... that's first... plan," she whispers, uncertain of her commandment. 

He nods in agreement, helping her stand up with his hands before grabbing her knapsack that laid against the wall and fastening it around her back. She smiled at the gesture, walking out the door after she had packed the last of their bits and bobs together—beckoning for him to follow.

* * *

After two weeks, they arrived at the foothills of Kakariko Village dawning the edge of spring, just as the plum blossoms had begun to take bloom. She could hear the occasional familiar sound of the wind chimes in the distance along with the wooden talisman knocking against each other on their woven strands throughout the cool breeze; striking her eardrums as their proximity to the village began to close.

 

Upon learning of their precedented arrival not even a day prior, Paya fell into a state of utter panic. She wrung a damp cloth from the water of a wooden pail, running it across the wooden decking of the temple; vigorously scrubbing at the various nooks and cracks in the floorboards that nobody would care to take notice of. She stood on her tiptoes atop a wobbly stool, reaching high to dust the rafters just below the ceilings. She polished the balustrades and the creaky wooden staircases, inside and that which lead up to the residence. She worked until her fingers began to prune, her knees and soles red and bruised from the constant pressure.

The night prior, she spent a generous amount of time in the bathhouse; washing her hair and freeing it of it’s copious knots and split ends, along with cleansing every inch of her pale skin with her personally made bath oils and soap concoctions. Her usual robes were freshly pressed and tied neatly at the seams, and her bedhead was brushed back and controlled slickly and neatly in the tight bun laying atop her head of the coming morning.

So, Impa wasn’t surprised when Paya presented her a wooden tray during early hours. Atop of it laid various wooden bowls filled with different shades of pink and red paints. Impa sighed, shaking her head as she obligingly dipped her fingers into the moisture-laden red paste.

“You usually do this yourself, Paya,” she said constructively, tilting Paya’s chin upwards with her clean hand. Paya’s eyes slipped closed as Impa’s fingers drifted across her eyelids and upon the bridge of her nose; the presiding symbol of the Sheikah being traced upon her skin.

“It has been a while since I saw him last,” Paya whispers, careful not to move a muscle as Impa skilfully worked her way around her face. She wouldn’t ever risk wrinkling the paint—especially not today. Impa knew of her feelings toward Link; all the while, she knew they would never be reciprocated.  _Everybody_ within Kakariko knew... but nobody had the heart to tell her, nor to tear her down from her fantasies.

“I hope you’re not expecting any changes. We should only expect that their waistlines may have grown by a few inches,” Impa says, a slight chuckle escaping her pruned lips.

Paya’s eyes opened instantaneously. “ _Grandmother_ ,” she replied, displeased.

Impa finished, wiping off her dampened fingers with the cloth Paya provided her. She daubed the plum perfume concoction onto the back of Paya’s neck and behind her ears, finishing at her wrists; which she took and squeezed, asserting her attention.

“You’re very courageous for giving up your bedroom,” Impa smiled. “Thank you.”

Paya shook her head at her grandmother’s words. “Of course I must. Master Link and the Princess deserve better than to sleep in an inn.”

 

Sunset dawned over the village, orange and rose hues blanketing the sky above them as they waited atop the temple veranda for the pair’s arrival. Dorian waved to them from the foot of the staircase below, giving confirmation that Master Link and Princess Zelda had been spotted making their journey up the mountain.

Time passed, every mere second prolonging into what felt like  _hours_  as Paya listened attentively, hoping to see the knight in clad whom made her heart lunge in her chest. Eventually, she heard the excited voices of the villagers along with the hard hoofbeats against the earth—those of which began to intensify as they slowly traversed to the staircase, each atop their own horse. They reached the foot where Dorian greeted them, taking the reigns of Link’s restless steed, allowing him to dismount with ease. He then turned, reaching out both of his arms toward Zelda to help her dismount herself. She took them, in turn squeezing his hands as thanks as she lowered herself gracefully toward the ground, slowly peeling back the hood of Link's travellers cloak to reveal her face.

It wasn’t until that moment that Paya realised her true beauty. Paya knew the feeling within her chest well. It was familiar—the same heart-wrenching, gut-twisting feeling that overcame her as she gave her farewells to Link as he eagerly took off on his journeys upon fully regaining his memories and receiving the Master Sword; a single goal in mind—to save the Princess. It was the feeling of inferiority; the feeling that his eyes would never be laid upon hers alone. She had prepared herself for it, of course. Even before seeing her, Paya knew Zelda was beautiful. She read the stories and sonnets that spoke so highly of her, not only as a member of the royal, but the beauty bestowed upon her at birth that continued to flourish as she grew of age. She could easily attest to such claims, despite her unawareness, her effortlessness; her unruly golden hair atop her head sifting through the wind, her glistening emerald eyes which would envision images of green fields bundled with copious flora, her light freckles dotting the nose of her sun-kissed face as a result of sunny weather and travels. Dressed in regular travelllers attire, she would just seem like a normal human being; a traveller visiting an old friend. No one would ever think that she would be a member of the royal family, let alone the physical embodiment of a Goddess who sealed Ganon away. There was such a striking radiance about her that Paya felt...  _ashamed_ , almost, to be in the presence of such grace and beauty.

 

Zelda’s gaze immediately landed upon Impa as she reached the peak of the stairs. A warm smile overwhelmed her petite face as she drifted toward the Sheikah Elder with tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Impa,” she breathed, kneeling to embrace her. Their limbs intertwined, and Impa held her with strength.

“It’s been far too long, my Princess. I feared you would have aged so much that I would not know your face, and yet, here you are—having not aged a day,” she smiled, drawing back from their embrace to grasp her hands.

“And to you, too.”

Impa scoffs, laughing quietly. “Certainly not, Princess. The next time we meet will be after my passing, I am sure of it.”

“ _Grandmother,_ ” Paya warned her sternly, watching as Impa wiped at Zelda’s tears with her delicate, pruned fingers. Zelda then opened her eyes, her gaze drifting toward Paya who blushed feverishly.

“You must be Paya,” she whispered. Before Paya could react, she found herself being embraced as well; the blood rushing to her face even more than before, almost matching the tone of red paint appointing her skin. Zelda pulled away, her hands gently placed on Paya’s shoulders. “I have eagerly awaited our meeting.”

She was unsure of how to explain to Paya and Impa both without embarrassing them that she has, indeed, encountered Paya’s presence before as she ghosted the temple through the eyes of the Goddesses much like she did with Link—keeping vigil on the blood moons. She knew that Paya would prime and posy herself before Link’s visits. She knew that Paya would write in her diary every Sunday; accounting for the week’s events. She even looked over her shoulder once, viewing her cursive, curly writing upon the oiled parchment paper which omitted a familiar musky smell that lingered about the low desk on the second floor; but the moment she did, she caught a glimpse of Link’s name and leant back, figuring it would be best not to peeve. It was clear to Zelda that Paya was nervous, embarrassed, even—moreso than she was, so she vowed then and there to keep the details to herself.

“There’s plenty of time for all of this,” Impa interrupted before Zelda could muster a single word to address Paya as she consecutively bowed on the spot and muttered words of inaudible praise. “For now, it is time for supper.” She gestured toward the door, beckoning for them to follow her inside. Linky, dressed in the clad blue Champion’s tunic is by Zelda’s side the moment he hears the word, previously entranced in conversation with Dorian. Eagerly and without hesitation, he takes the lead; finding his seat upon an aired cushion adjacent to the low oaken table.

Impa, being well aware of Link’s gluttonous nature had prepared well before his arrival. The table was filled to the brim with a variety of dishes; a golden, frothing stew in the centre tossed with pumpkin and carrots, Kakariko’s specialties, along with the familiar scent of Goron spice that Link usually adds to his own dishes. Surrounding the broth was piles of fried greens and steamed mushrooms, still simmering from the small cooking stove that sat to the side of the table. The most important dish however, to Link at the very least, was the pile of the finest gourmet meat he had ever laid his eyes upon, resting atop a large bed of fresh, seasoned rice.

The four of them sat at either sides of the table; Link contently digging into the feast in silence whilst the princess conversed with Impa and Paya regarding the details of their travels. Paya darted her head between Zelda and her hands that worked at making a traditional tea brew, sifting tea leaves through a cloth with a tea-whisk, scooping single, finer leaf portions into a wooden bowl to rest before bringing the kettle water to a boil.

“We firstly travelled to Hateno,” Zelda began, showing Paya the map on the Sheikah Slate as she worked at sifting. “Link slept for two days—and then another, after he woke up from a hissy-fit,” she said jokingly, looking at him.

He choked on his food upon hearing her words—a skewer in his hand as he coughed and heaved, recalling the event vividly. He gulped down the minced portions already within his mouth, wiping the grease and residue off of his lips with the back of his hand as his gaze returned her own; a furrow forming between his eyebrows as he grimaced at her. She laughed, and he shook his head with a roll of his eyes, resuming his feast. The kettle in Paya’s delicate hands was simmering as she stirred and sifted the tea leaves within it's interior.

“We decided to stay for a bit longer than planned, to see the surrounding areas, as obliged. I met with Purah at her research laboratory. I wasn’t expecting her to be—to be so…”

“Childish?” Impa interrupts, gripping her knee to control her soft laughter which warmed the room.

“N-No. I just wasn’t expecting her to be so… small? If that’s the correct word.”  

 

The blue flame outside of the house atop the hill overlooking Hateno lingered in it's oddly shaped stove, sapphire embers drifting toward the sky filled with dark cloud. Link held the creaky wooden door open for her, a polite gesture as per usual, and she was greeted by a child; shorter and wider in stature than that of a typical Hylian or Sheikah.

"Oh, oh! My Princess has returned!" The child spoke excitedly, pushing the over- sized red-framed opticals further up her nose as she bounced on the spot, her hands waving in the air. Zelda grimaced at the formalities, but her eyes widened in realisation after she identified the familiar dialect, and she dropped to her knees.

"Purah?" She smiled, her hands complacently stretched out before her in welcome.

"Hey-ho! That's me!" The child replied, running into her arms to give her a quick hug. She then pushed back from the embrace, walking toward Link and squeezing his legs tightly as he towered over her. He stumbled, his ears twitching nervously as he scratched the back of his head, his hair ruffling at the touch.

"What a great surprise you have bought me, Linky!"

Behind Purah, Symin waved to the pair awkwardly before ducking behind the wall with his head in a book—not one for formalities. That, or, he didn't know about her. She appreciated it, nonetheless—partially sick of meeting new people, partially sick of acquiring even more people to call her by her formal title she dreaded to hear.

Link worked at freeing himself from Purah's grasp, eventually succumbing as Purah began detailing her age experiments to Zelda; her hands still tightly wrapped around Link's calves.

"An age reversal rune, you say?" Zelda said, eagerly taking note as she observed the Sheikah Slate within her hands. Purah nodded, finally releasing her grasp off of Link—resulting in a sigh of relief from his behalf.

"My old diary documenting the experiment is upstairs, if you want to have a read," she hummed. "Link could probably tell you all about it, though," she said cheekily, winking at him.

Link sneered. Out of curiosity, he stumbled upon her diary one day as he was searching for documents regarding the Divine Beasts—or so he says.

Purah didn't believe his excuses, and she yelled at him. "Hokay then. I believe you… Not!" "Control your appetite, you bonehead!" "Can't you just go find food somewhere else?!"

 

 

“Oh, I know. A failed experiment, if you could ever consider it a failure,” Impa says, interrupting Zelda's train of thought. After all, the age reversing rune  _did_ do it’s job. “She has the body of a six year old. Never mind that—how is she? Still terrorising the local children?”

Zelda laughs, covering her mouth with her hand to maintain politeness. She settles, a beaming smile upon her face. “Oh, yes—do you hear from her often?”

“Sometimes. More than enough to know the details,” Impa says, raising the tea platter to drink from the cup Paya had just skilfully poured. She lowers it, pausing to examine the bottom of the saucer through the dark fluid. “Well?”

“ _Well_?” Zelda repeats, questioning her.

“You must permit me to pester you about these things, Princess. What are your plans, as of now?”

“ _Plans_?” Zelda says, her hands falling to her lap and intertwining together.

Plans? Dear Goddess. She wasted a week simply  _recovering_. The next week, they spent their time in the areas surrounding Hateno for mere site-seeing purposes. Link was the one who was organised—taking the initiative for blueprints to be made as she sat there, her incompetence taking hold.

She sighed. “I don’t really… have any plans. Not yet. I’ve never been this free, so, as of right now, there is still so much I wish to see and do before I begin anything of the sort. I want to visit the four domains. I want to visit the castle, I—”

“Ah, princess—"

“Link, however, organised for some blueprints to be made with a certain construction company. We reviewed the basic fundamentals before we set off.”

 

The blueprints detailing Hyrule Castle, drawn hastily over the course of a few days with lead and ink on spare pieces of parchment paper were simple to understand. Clear and concise, just the way she liked it, the way Link specifically requested—and yet, she barely understood them as they lay jumbled and sprawled out across the furniture of Link’s house; the table in the centre of the lodging barely able to fit them all.

Regardless, she insisted to be informed and involved at every step of the rebuild of the Castle. Even if it was from afar. Even if she would just pop in to view the progress here and there. She still held such a responsibility, as much as she wished she didn’t.

Bolson, the leader of the company, shook her off as he put a hand on her shoulder, his other hand on his hip as he puckered his lips. "As I see it, sweetie, you deserve something  _way_ more, how to put it… Marvelous? Magnificent? Fabulous, even? You have to leave the dirty stuff to the plebs like us, honey," he said with a wide, cheeky grin planted across his face. Zelda smiled at the gesture, squeezing the hand on her shoulder in thanks; letting it fall as she proceeded to look over his shoulder; trying to process the information. She had seen blueprints before—mostly for the Divine Beasts and other ancient Sheikah technologies, but this was... different. They were somehow concise to the eye, and yet they included the finest details; including what remained of Hyrule Castle that they planned to work with, along with almost exact measurements for some walls and rooms Link provided them from a night’s survey. It was... intriguing.

Bolson and Karson, alongside some of the finest, hand-picked construction workers from Hateno observed Bolson as he spoke, his hands dramatically gesturing his words as he explained the process of the blueprints to the unknowing pair and additional workers who were unfamiliar of Bolson’s thought processes.

All of the worker’s names, of course, had to end with  _'son’_ , as per company rule. There were others who didn't meet that requirement, of course, to build up the labour force by Link’s recommendation—but Bolson frowned upon them, even rolling his eyes—tending to keep his distance wherever suit. He almost insisted on having each and every one of the workers brought up on a stage of sorts to introduce themselves to her, to examine their pros and cons—and Bolson kept shaking his head at Zelda's polite, almost shaky declines of his offer. “Nothing but the best for  _you_ , honey.”

Instead, she got to know each and every one of them casually; sitting with them and conversing over food and drink—laughing at the jokes and stories they would tell her as they swigged at bottles of ale and mead. She felt tranquil; like that of a normal being without the responsibility of the Kingdom’s rebuild atop their shoulders to weigh them down, despite how uninvolved she truly felt.

Link sat a fair distance behind her, spending most of the night silently feasting and prodding at the leftover bits on the worker’s plates. Night arose sooner than planned, and the workers drunkenly stumbled to their quarters; the Bolson construction homes just before the bridge to Link’s cottage. Bolson himself packed up his tools, delicately placing them into the knapsack which swayed along his waist before rolling up the scrolls of copious blueprints and hugging them toward his chest.

“Okey-doo, that’s the plan! Keep in touch, yes? We’ll have them done for ‘ya in no time,” He said dotingly.

“Of course,” Zelda said excitedly. Her excitement then quickly faded as her gaze lowered unto the basic blueprint scrolls Bolson held tightly. “But I have to ask…” she began with a sigh, continuing, “Why are you willingly helping us?”

Bolson laughed, his hand exaggeratedly airing off his face as if he was swatting away a fly. “Oh, honey. Princess. Whatever you like to be called,” he began. “If I help you, I’ll be remembered for centuries to come! I’ll practically be famous. Imagine that, hey?”

“Yes, but—“

“ _And,_ not to mention, Link did help build us a town over in Akkala. Quite a fine job he did, if I do say so myself. I'm practically jealous...” he said, looking Link up and down with an indicative smirk. Link almost spat, turning his head and coughing into his fist quietly to disguise it. “It’s quite a good deal. It’s all the compensation I’ll  _ever_  need!”

* * *

A chill was overcast Kakariko Village, and it was time to turn in for the night. Zelda, now accompanied by Paya alone, leant upon the wooden balustrades overlooking the village. Dressed in her old travellers gear, she felt... somewhat trivial; the familiar Champion’s blue and snow white chemise with intricate gold entailing still fitting her as flawlessly as it did a century ago. Paired with it, she strided her ashen corduroy pants tucked neatly into her brown leather boots, along with the leather belt and knapsack fastened around her waist for minimal luggage which completed the look. Impa somehow managed to keep it intact for a century, along with a pair of her winter garments—a thick, woolen coat stretching to her knees paired with fleece boots. Impa insisted that she wear it, despite how utterly inadequate it made her feel.

Link could be seen in the distance, a small dotted figure atop the cliff side which overlooked the village and the field toward Hyrule Castle. Next to him, an ancient shrine stood tall, covered in roots and moss at the base, the rest illuminating and glowing an sapphire through the darkness of twilight.

Paya eyed him endearingly, her face resting in the crook of her palms with a slight blush painting her cheeks as her eyes doted with passion.

Zelda almost scoffed at the sight. “Dare I say—do you... fancy him?”

Paya snapped out of her entranced lovestruck daze, her hair standing on their ends. “W-Who?”

Zelda smiled. “Link.”

Paya’s face lit up with a red raw blush. She almost shook; nervous convulsions travelling throughout her spine. She waved her hands in front of her nervously as she stuttered, “M-Me? Link? There’s... There’s n-no way! Not in the slightest! Never!”

Zelda laughed. “Really?”

Paya shook her head, her thin lips parting slightly, allowing her to breathe, “...Y-Yes.”

It was a lie. Zelda didn’t have to persist to know the truth—it was shown in her eyes clouded over with thought, the slight rose blush on the tip of her nose and ears as she was in his presence, the way she stuttered as she spoke of him. She knew it, and yet she couldn’t help but feel an uncertain pain taking hold within her chest.

Zelda turned, beginning to walk down the stairs. “Please excuse me, Paya,” she said, looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t bear to watch her—but Paya, yet again entranced within a daze paid no notice.

 

Zelda strode up the hill to meet him, watching him from behind as he cut and sliced through the air with quiet breaths and heaves; beads of sweat dripping from his nose and chin unto the earth below. He noticed her approaching and paused, turning to look her up and down, his sweat-slicked bangs covering his face.

“ _What?_ ” Zelda said irritatingly.

His expression was… unreadable. Especially in the darkness; as the moon was shrouded by cloud, and the only thing enlightening his stature was the familiar azure glow from his sword. It was a combination of what seemed like curiosity and concern; a singular raised eyebrow, a furrow formed between the middle. She believed for a second she saw him grinning, but the thought was ceased as he turned around—proceeding to walk toward the cliff overhanging the village, sitting down and letting his feet dangle off of the ledge daringly. He placed his sword in front of him; his calloused palm gripping the hilt as he used the corners of his tunic to polish it’s length with the other.

She quickly took a seat next to him, her hands complacent in her lap as she crossed her legs. She rolled her eyes, her neck turning to his direction, allowing her hair to cascade down her opposing shoulder.“ _Seriously_.”

Glowing emerald fireflies began to swarm toward them, the sounds of the occasional restless cricket rustling through the lengthy grass blades nearby and the occasional hoot of an owl within the trees. They were still. It was quiet. But she still heard his faint whisper, which she probably wasn’t supposed to take notice of. “Your outfit.”

The fireflies dispersed hastily in fear, and they were in a sapphire-elicited darkness yet again. “…What of it?” She asked, frowning.

He shrugged, almost sarcastically murmuring, “It’s... nice?”

She smiled, her mouth opening to thank him, but she noticed his distracted gaze—drifting off of the cliff face, toward the castle that could be seen in the distance, barren and bare. Her gaze landed upon the sword which rested atop his thighs; and she reached for it, her delicate hands grazing over the violet and green strewn hilt. She gripped it sternly, slowly pulling it toward her; sliding it across his lap to her own.

She honestly thought that he would stop her. She was waiting for his hasty, shaky, overprotective gestures to take hold—that of which would grab her at the wrist and push her away. In fact, she was hoping for it, because truth be told, she had no idea how to properly hold a sword or examine it without seeming… hopeless. Incompetent. Clumsy. She had no idea why she reached for the sword in the first place, apart from curiosity’s sake. Unfortunately, such thoughts nor actions never came from him—he only looked down at her hands, watching every action she took. Dear Goddess.

Despite Link sitting beside her, unbecoming and unknowing of his thoughts, she was half taken-aback. The Master Sword, supposedly forged by the Goddesses of yonder, within her grasp. She had only ever seen the sword in it’s full glory from a distance; for other times, it was hidden within it’s scabbard, laying between his shoulder blades or fastened to his belt—almost as if it was a  _part_  of him. She eventually  grasped the scabbard and slowly sheathed the sword to the hilt with clumsiness; the final sound of the metallic seal striking their ears.

“Can you teach me?” She whispered, holding the sheathed sword out to him. She looked down at the sword extended before her indicatively, hoping his gaze would follow suit. “Swordsmanship, I mean.”

He was silent—his mouth half-gaped open, his eyebrows partially raised, his eyes widened more than usual. “Why?” He asked suddenly, taking the sword from her and placing it on the earth between them.

Her gaze drifted past him, toward the castle. She twirled a strand of her hair in her fingers, and sighed with heavy, exasperated breaths, observing the sight in the distance beholding her. “There’s not much else I can do,” she eventually murmured, her whole body turning to face him. “I can’t just watch you…” she continued, her hands reaching to graze over the sword’s scabbard. Her forehead lowered to rest upon the peak of his shoulder, her gaze directed toward the engraved symbol on her right hand which forced her to squint her eyes shut. “Please,” she almost begged croakily.

He was still, but she heard his slight ear twitch above her hair. It was unfamiliar, no,  _he_ was unfamiliar. She knew him, better than anyone else—and yet, at the same time, there was a new part of him that she didn't know as of now. She had already discovered that he was a lot more expressive than he was previously; as compared to the stoic, silent knight he once was. A century ago, she coaxed it out of him—the reason for his silence, utilising the assistance of good food and the night's moonlight upon her bedroom balcony in the castle.

 

She could recall it as if it were yesterday. He sat there, leaning against the stone wall that lead into her study, twiddling with his fingers as he looked down into the space between his crossed legs—beside him, his sword. "I just..." he stuttered, continuing, "I just have to bear them alone." She knew it was hard for him to say—and yet he continued. "The responsibility of... of being your knight." He paused, his hand grazed over the sword which beckoned for her gaze to follow. "The sword."

She sat down next to him, her robes slid against the stone as her body lofted downward. Their fingers barely touched—a century ago, he was cold, and yet she could still feel his radiating heat.

 

The memory, at the time, allowed her to understand him in a whole new light. Much like herself, he was beseeched with such heavy burdens—the responsibility of being her appointed knight and the attention that followed. From the moment he was able, he knew his role would mirror his father's; and it followed him further from the moment he unearthed the Master Sword. He found it necessary to stay strong and silently bear the burdens—alone. At that time, she had never so badly wished to see what lay behind his calm waters; to hear him speak freely and openly with her as a friend, rather than individuals each just trying to fulfill their own responsibilities.

She got what she wished for. Now, he conveyed so much thought and emotion through his subtle expressions and one-worded responses, despite how trivial it may seem. She  _got_  what she wished for, and yet, she couldn't help but feel... a little in the dark? Perhaps, he feels the same; perhaps, she also lost a part of herself along the past century.

Eventually, she came back to her senses as he pushed her back slightly, squeezing her shoulders lightly before he stood—throwing the sword over his back. His sapphire eyes, alike the sword, almost glowed in the dim moonlight as he looked down at her—entranced with an uncertain anger.

"No Princess should ever wield a sword," he said abruptly, almost too quick to be legible, swiftly turning to walk down toward the village before giving her a chance to reply.

 

Zelda was furious. It was shown in her eyebrows—the dented furrow that formed between them. The way she clenched her fists together as she walked. The way her ears would point backward in the slightest. In fictional stories, she read that steam would be spouting out of her ears in these situations. All in spite, she asked Dorian—even though his skills were inferior to those of Link’s.

“Prin-Zelda... Of course I will, but wouldn’t Master Link be better suited for the task?”

She shook her head at his words, her hands on her waist as she turned—beckoning for Dorian to follow her up the hill to the shrine.

* * *

Paya was... jealous. To an extent. It was unbecoming of her, as she was forbidden to wield a sword herself as Impa’s next of kin. And yet, watching the Princess—she couldn’t help but feel even more inferior than she already was. So, she divulged her head into her leather bound books, timing her page turns with precision as she mindlessly read the jumbled words on the stained paper. She helped Link and the village farmers pick freshly grown carrots and pumpkins from their roots embedded in the soil, getting dirt under her fingernails. She washed and scrubbed at her own clothes and their’s in the pond below the temple, laying them out to air and dry in the day’s sunshine blessed upon the spring-bound village. It was all in attempts to distract herself—but her thoughts came rushing back to her every time her gaze fell upon Link; whose gaze was locked atop the hill where she would be found, a sorrowful expression painting his dark eyes as they drooped.

“Do you know what they are up to, Master Link?” Paya broke the silence between them as he leant against the temple balustrades and she scrubbed at the decking. She paused, sitting up to wipe the sweat off of her forehead with the back of her hand, her labour and exertion doing volumes to hide her feverish blush. She still didn’t know how to talk to Link without feeling… nervous.

Link scoffed, waving his hand in front of his face. “‘ _Course_  I do.”

“If I may ask… why aren’t you teaching her instead?” Paya said quietly. She was happy that she had Link to herself for the time being—and yet, his focus was always on her, even when they were apart. For a second, she wondered if Link was entranced with the Princess romantically. She had thought it before, even written it on paper in her diary within the Temple’s loft—but now wasn’t the right time. She slapped her cheeks with her small palms, making them even more red than before, proceeding with her work.

Link looked at her, frowning as he raised one eyebrow at her gestures. With a somewhat goofy, confused smile; his gaze returning to the dotted figures atop the hill.

 

Dorian and Zelda hid between the trees. They sparred between the tall grass blades, often wandering off into the nearby woods in the shadows of twilight. It was the same place. Every night. For hours straight.

She gripped a knight’s broadsword by the hilt in her right hand, her thumb positioned just below the sword’s shield as Dorian had showed her—or rather, the way she had memorised Link grip his own.

“You learn quick,” Dorian huffed, placing his makeshift wooden blade against the cliff close to the shrine.

She laughed. Quick? Certainly not. It had been days. She practiced every waking hour. Either that, or she was playing with the Sheikah Slate like a child under Impa’s guidance in the time that allowed. She was out of everyone’s sight—including Link’s own, as they continued to avoid each other unknowingly.

“I have a good teacher,” she smiled insincerely, sheathing her own into the scabbard tied along her leather belt.

“Time to hit the hay,” Dorian said. He then bowed before her. “Sleep well, Princess.”

She waved her hands before him, dismissing his gesture. “Please. It’s Zelda.”

Once he had disappeared out of her sight, she walked further into the woods—practicing routinely, as per usual, sparring at air.

And then… she feels it. Just a small tingle in the base of her skull, slithering down her spine as she practiced mindlessly; but it began to feel more clear—more certain. She doesn’t make any sudden movements, stilling her heaves of the blade before her to focus. She knew what to do in these situations—to keep her gaze low and her breathing steady. She isn’t worried, exactly—she knows that if she detects it, Link and the Sheikah members do also. It was situations like these she was preparing herself for, after all.

Her eyes slipped closed. She listened—the slight rustle of the leaves and grass in the wind, the occasional wind chimes knocking against each other and—footsteps. She could just barely hear them, but she was certain. There was no doubt about it. She readied her sword before her; studying her peripheral. Her heart began to race, tiny streams of sweat travelling down her arms to the tips of her fingers, loosening her grip on the hilt. She knew she was probably overreacting—it was probably just a rabbit or a deer foraging, perhaps, even a blupee—but the footsteps began to louden. They were fast. Close. And she couldn’t see nor detect what direction they were coming from.

Before she knew it, something unknown had begun to run toward her. It, whatever  _it_  was—was about to pursue her, much like the times of a century ago, whereby Link was by her side without a thought for his own life. With a hitched breath, she quickly readied her sword within her right hand, gripping the hilt sternly as she positioned the blade to cover her body in defence. Her left foot landed in front of her, her boots seeping into the mossy earth as she re-distributed her balance, allowing her to turn in the opposite direction—her hair following as she did, almost blinding her vision. As she steadied herself, she heard the figure slide downward and out of her sight—shifting toward her behind once again. She turned almost instantaneously in response, but a stern hand wrapped around her mouth prevented her from tilting her head more than halfway; another hand gripping and squeezing at her right wrist, forcing her to drop the sword. She mustered a muffled scream at the pain and pressure within the tight grasp upon her mouth, her hands now locked behind the small of her back. Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes as she struggled and attempted to wring herself from their grasp.

The figure, evidently, towered over her in height and stature. She kicked at their knees to no avail; wriggled herself free only to be entranced in their arms yet again, screaming Link’s name only to be heard as muffled pleas.

In pure desperation, she squinted her eyes shut, tilting her head downward which allowed her teeth to reach forward and bite down on the fingers enclosing her mouth. She gasped and spluttered as the perpetrators hands fell, allowing her to barely pry herself from the now weak grasp on her wrist as she dived toward the earth where her sword lay. 

She sobbed, positioning the sword in front of her as she attempted to stand from her knees which shakily forbade her, planting her to the earth like dead weight. Before she had a chance to catch a glimpse of the figure, whoever it may be, another shadow dashed past her through the swift movement of the wind—the sound of metal parrying against metal shocking her, before a sword was heard landing unto the earth, dagger-first.

She looked over her shoulder just barely, the familiar champion’s blue being the first thing she saw. He stood there, his master sword glowing fiercely as it pointed up toward the figure’s throat who towered over him in height. The stranger was dressed in normal traveller’s attire, as opposed to what she thought she would see—the familiar red and black Yiga gear of those whom pursued her a century ago. He was a Gerudo man; olive skin with red, almost calamatious eyes. He was tall with broad shoulders and toned muscles that could be seen in the tight indents of his attire. He had dusty red hair that reached to his collarbones, tied out of his face with a small, messy braid, the dark cloak he strode reaching to his knees barely folded over his features.

“Who are you?” Link hissed. At first, he didn’t answer, so Link pushed the sword further—the tip of the metal sheen barely seeping into the man’s skin; a spot of blood forming at the tip.

The stranger placed his hands before him in defeat. “Just an underling,” the stranger said with a deep voice before snickering.

“Your business?”

“Looking for the one who calls themselves Link and the Princess with the claim to the throne,” He says, looking down toward the sword. His eyes then rose to match Link’s gaze, darting between him and Zelda. “Assuming that’s you two?”

“And what if we are?” Link sneered, tilting the sword slightly as he looked along it’s glowing blade; it’s tip never leaving the Gerudo's vitality.

"I'm here to deliver a warning," the stranger said, turning his head as much as his body would allow, otherwise prevented by the blade. "There's people—only a few, but they're skilled. They're looking for you to fulfill a prophecy."

“What?” Link asks, placing his left hand on the hilt adjacent to his right as he repositioned it; focusing his gaze on the stranger as he furrowed his eyebrows and gritted his teeth. “ _Who? What_ prophecy?"

The stranger gulped, his Adam’s apple dislodging in his throat.

“If you can't tell me anymore, then we're done here,” Link said abruptly, his grasp on the hilt tightening as he readied himself to pull backward and deal a fatal blow.

“You sure you want to do this in front of your Mistress?” The stranger snickered, looking past Link’s shoulder to where Zelda sat, gripping the broadsword to her chest shakily. Link quickly looked over to her as she returned his gaze with tears welling in her eyes. She shook her head at him—and he knew better than to show no mercy. The moment he looked back, willingly ready to spare him for _her_ sake, the Gerudo stranger was gone without a trace.

She dropped the sword from her grasp and crawled toward him, looking up into his eyes as he dropped his own unto the earth, kneeling before her as he almost routinely turned her and examined her body for any scars or injuries, his hands scathing over her pale, shaky skin. He didn't stop, he was restlessly shaken—exhaling heavy, exasperated breaths and gritting his teeth, his hair unkempt from rest. She had to lean toward him to cease his worried movements, her head falling into his chest, allowing her hair to cascade around her face and hide her tears as she sobbed and writhed whilst slightly rocking back and forth on her knees. She was scared of death, even though she had stared it right in the eye and survived, lo, a century ago.

His head barely leant on top of hers as he muttered curses and apologies under his breath. His hands laid by his sides, sinking into the earth as he clenched his fists in anger.

She gripped his shoulders, pushing herself back. Their foreheads almost touched as she shook her head at his murmured words. “Why be sorry?” She whispered between sobs, vigorously wiping her streaming tears with the back of her hands, causing her eyes to redden. She then smiled, whispering, “I know you would have saved me.”

He took her wrist upon hearing her words, red and raw from where the perpetrator restrained her, and held it softly; his thumb grazing over her pulse. “But what if I didn’t make it?” He said, looking into her eyes with a sorrowful expression. It was painful, almost; the way he looked at her through his sapphire eyes—emotionless and dark, as though had failed her. His spare hand wiped at a single tear forming in her eye before falling to his side, yet again.

“Link, I—“

“I-I should have known.”

“Known what?” She asked with a whisper.

“That  _this_  would happen,” he hissed, looking over toward his left where the dagger lay.

She didn’t question him, she just shook her head, her hand grasping his which held her wrist gently as she lowered it to the ground. “Then please, Link, teach me so I know—“

“I will,” he said apologetically, a croak in the back of his throat as he held back his regret. “I just…” he began, looking down toward their hands. His hands then went into his face full of hair, and he shook his head in them roughly.

Zelda tilted his chin up with her free hand, making him look her directly in the eyes. “You always look down when you are with me, Link. Don’t.”

He leant backward, his mouth half-gaped open as the words left her mouth. He smiled feebly, looking into her eyes as he tilted his head slightly, opened his mouth to whisper, “I just felt... unneeded.”

Him? Unneeded? _She_  was the one who felt unneeded by him. He had done his duty—upheld the prophecy by dealing the final blow to Calamity Ganon; allowing her to seal him away—he was no longer held back by the title of her appointed knight, which disallowed him his freedom. She felt unneeded by the Kingdom—of which she had no claim toward, no throne; for she left it to rot with ash and malice due to her incompetence. And yet, despite everything, he still stayed by her side. Travellers offered her goods, along with words of praise. Enemies pursued her, despite her holding no redeemable threat.

“Never,” she said, removing her hand from his chin to cover her mouth as she snickered. “I’m too clumsy.”

He almost scoffed, breaking out into a warm, hearty laugh, nodding, “You do need to watch your six.”

* * *

She striked her sword against a piece of flint upon the wick of a torch, and it lit instantaneously; a strong flame overcasting the shadows encompassing them. Link, by her side, followed her as she made her way through the foreign cave, observing and noting the inscriptions and carvings on the wall, consisting of paintings and a foreign language detailing a supposed untold prophecy, long forgotten by time itself. It's whorls, the engraving, the stylisation, the pigments, however deteriorated were too similar to be mere coincidence. They were painted in the same era, the same culture as the ancient technologies, the tapestry cloth detailing the prophecy upon the wall in Impa's temple, the etchings lining the holy sanctum below the castle and the holy temples across Hyrule studded with stone engravings and paint.

And then, there were glowing words. The colour of luminous stone. They floated throughout the air, and seemed to lead her toward... something. She could feel it, like an instinct, a knot of sorts within her core telling her to push forward, to keep going, in which she upheld. Suddenly, she dropped the torch in shock at the sight beholding her—turning toward Link, but her vision was ceased as she woke up. 

She kicked the sheets off of her. A week had past, and Zelda awoke from her slumber every night during the early hours of the morning, without fail. She was roused and sweaty and heaving and gripping her sword until Link sleepily pried it from her grasp and laid it to the floor, an eyebrow raised in concern as he wafted himself onto the bed next to her with a _thud_.

By now, she could no longer remember the words of the Gerudo man, let alone his face. All she reconciled upon was a singular word which fell from his lips and striked her interest, being _'prophecy'_. They kept it to themselves—not wanting to raise concern. It had yet to leave their minds, mostly her own, perhaps the very cause of her nightmares which were so vivid, as if she had seen them before through her own eyes—and yet, the moment she rose, she was unable to recall a single thing.

Link pulled her closer, allowing her head to fall into the crevice joining his neck and shoulder blades. He began to slowly brush the loose, messy strands of her hair with his calloused palm as he did every night, before he, slightly unhopeful, whispered to her, "Remember anything?"

He asked her the question every night, but the answer was always the same. She shook her head slightly as the tears began to well and cascade down her cheeks, staining them both.

 

In the warmth of the afternoon, Paya readied their horses, tying their bags and knapsacks onto the saddle strings and billet, leaving enough space on the cantle for their weaponry. She fed each of the horses apples out of her slightly bent palms. Link walked up to her, swiftly taking her hands and straightening them; her palms now flat with the apple resting in the centre.

“Wouldn’t want to get your fingers nipped off,” He said cheerfully, his hands falling to his hips as a slight grin painted his face.

She blushed, a bright smile spreading across her cheeks as she soothed the horse’s manes in her spit-slicked palms. “N-No… I suppose not.”

Zelda walked up to them, a silver broadsword attached to her hip by the belt. “Paya,” she whispered, grabbing her hands with a smile. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

Paya shook her head, sweating. Her heart wrenched slightly at the use of the plural. She had calmed, speaking to Zelda and Link over the past two weeks—and yet being with them directly still made her nervous. Thinking of them  _together_  still made her sorrowful. “N-Not at all, Princess. Link.”

Impa came down from the temple with the assistance of Dorian and Kado by her side. She walked slowly, bobbing up and down as she took small steps toward them. “It is an honour to have been graced by your presence for this long, Princess,” Impa said croakily as she approached her.

“Not at all,” Zelda breathed, embracing Impa. “I am sure we will see each other again.”

Link, not one for formalities, quickly pulled her toward her horse, hoisting her up toward the saddle by her hips. Afterward, he quickly mounted his own, looking ahead as they prepared to venture.

* * *

Not long after leaving the village through the western-bound gateway, Zelda steadied her horse, gently lowering herself to the ground on the land which overlooked both the entrance to Kakariko and Hyrule Castle as she held it’s reigns. She briefly stared between the two indecisively before grabbing the Sheikah Slate, observing the map.

"Divine Beast Vah Ruta… looks like it stopped working," she said curiously, looking toward Link. He dismounted his own horse, fluid and hasty, walking over to her to view the Slate himself, humming in thought.

"Let's investigate the situation," she says, a mix of excitement and concern in her voice. In the past, her heart rate would sky-rocket out of normal ranges the moment the topic of ancient technologies arose; whether she was eavesdropping, inquiring or reading. But now—she was uncertain. She didn’t want to make it seem as if she was running from her responsibilities. It still  _did_ peak her interest to that extent—however whenever she thought of it, she was reminded of her Father, the Champions, the deceased; which forced her to come spiralling back down to reality, where she stood atop a hill of corpses in her nightmares, rather than a throne. She sighed at her thoughts, looking over toward the trail to Zora’s domain, encompassed with steep hills and rock-strewn scapes.

"Mipha's father… I believe he would like to hear more about her. The least we can do is visit him and offer him some closure,” she breathed, lowering her head. "Although Ganon is gone for now, there is still so much more for us to do, and so many painful memories that we must bear. I believe in my heart, that if all of us work together… we can restore Hyrule to it's former glory…”

With a pause, her grip on the slate tightened, and she pursed her lips together. "…Perhaps, even beyond… But it all must start with  _us,_ " she said with a smile. "Let's be off.”

Link follows her, a few steps behind as she walks toward the horses—but she pauses. She comes to a complete stop in the centre of the field, exhaling deeply; resulting in a worried look from Link. 

"I can no longer hear the voice inside the sword…” She began, twirling a golden strand of hair in her fingers as she looked up toward the clear blue sky. She then shook her head, before leaning on her heels and turning toward him. "I suppose it would make sense if my power had dwindled over the past 100 years."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she smiled, whispering, "I'm surprised to admit it…but I can accept that."

She briefly looked down to the scar upon her right hand; the symbol of the Triforce engraved within her skin as nothing but a memory. Her hands then moved around to her back, intertwining clumsily. The smile grew toward that of a laugh, her golden hair flowing around her as the wind blew, encompassed with falling petals which had a sapphire colour alike that of his eyes. 

He smiled back, walking up to her as he threw his traveller's cloak around her, tying it at her collarbones hastily before they set off, as if nothing had changed.  


	2. Unbecoming

The origins of the word ‘Zonai’ came from the word ‘nazo’ in ancient Hylian literature, meaning ‘mystery’.

The Zonai tribe, supposedly long forgotten to time indeed met this requirement. Within ancient times, they were named as a savage group of individuals, mostly of Gerudo origin whom made their home within the Faron region. They were supposedly barbaric shape shifters and magic wielders, donning clothing of bone and hide, praising and worshipping otherworldly, ethereal forms, such as dragons and inscriptions of magic which floated throughout the air and divulged within their cold-blooded skin and flesh. Everything about them was otherworldly—they had their own language, illegible by the translators across Hyrule, one similar to that of ancient Gerudo and yet distinctly different, and one that faded with time as the pages of hand-written books turned to wilt and ash.

The cultures across Hyrule lived in fear of them, for legend told that with the closing of a enchanted wielder’s hand, an individual would perish with misfortune and decay, their influence spreading to their loved ones whom would also suffer with such afflictions. They were feared, that is, until the Sheikah approached them, lo, ten thousand years ago—wishing to cultivate their magic into their own, embedding it within a physical form in order to ward off a common evil in which the two tribes shared the same foretold prophecy toward in ancient time.

Such physical forms came to be known as the Ancient Sheikah technology; the Guardians, the Divine Beasts—which the Sheikah worked in conjunction with the Zonai people to produce. The Sheikah energy, derived from deposits within the land itself was embedded within the Zonai and Sheikah people’s various hand and tool carvings of stone in which they created together; the power bringing the inanimate objects life and purpose—that being to seek out and destroy calamity. With their purpose fulfilled, Calamity Ganon having been sealed away ten thousand years ago with the use of the Beasts, the Guardians, the Princess whom held the blood of the Goddess and a Hero, they eventually faded into time and became legend itself—little remnant of them remaining, apart from their intricate carvings and detailing within the architectures still found throughout the realm of Hyrule.

But there was, supposedly, another prophecy. Forgotten by time itself, faded into legend, much like the people of the Zonai tribe, it’s memory dispersed throughout the ages as descendants became ancestors and so forth. The Hero of ten thousand years ago, his origins thought to be that of Gerudo, became possessed by the God of Demise; his soul intoxicated with thoughts of hatred and malice incarnate for the blood of the Goddess which ran through the royal heritage and it’s Kingdom; the Princess foreboding the name of Zelda as a descendant of the Goddess and her powers whenever the need would arise as proven by gossip mongers and wargs. The fearless knight who braved death offered his life, his physical embodiment as a vessel of such to contain the evil, his love for the Kingdom and it’s people far too great to watch it perish with his own demise; and upon doing so, he was promptly buried deep beneath the Earth, sealed by the powers of the Zonai people. Within a temple, strewn with luminous stone the Gerudo people said hold the Zone souls, buried within depths that ensured no constructionist nor excavationist nor weary traveller would ever reach by normal means. His sealing, as a matter of fact, was thought to be the very demise of the Zonai tribe—the unspoken of rituals transcending all laws of nature requiring abundant amounts of energy and magic from both the earth and it’s people; which in time became remnants within stone as the seal was finally laid.

However, such a prophecy was thought of nothing more than a story told to children, forgotten by time immemorial.

 

The Gerudo man, supposedly a descendant of Calamity Ganon’s Gerudo form that existed ten thousand years ago believed it was a lie, but something knotted his chest each time his Master Eris spoke of it within his presence. He felt somewhat drawn to the castle, his dreams recurrent visions of its interiors, the cursive writing of ancient Gerudo which he could barely distinguish despite his knowledge; a peaked curiosity, he thought, but he knew it was something… more. Something that he couldn’t quite name.

Master Eris, a pale, tall figure with sleek black hair and black, soulless eyes stared the Gerudo figure down, his fingers reaching up toward the Gerudo man’s jawline and grazing over his dark olive skin. He then grabbed his chin and tilted his head downward, forcing eye contact between them.

“Inglis,” Eris whispered, almost like a hiss. He turned his head, letting his hands fall to the Gerudo man’s lips as he parted them with his thumbs. “Are you sure it wasn’t them?”

Inglis gritted his teeth, waving his hand in front of Eris to dismiss him. “Of course, sire.”

Inglis almost choked at his own words—despising the utmost fact that Eris had a hold on him, being the secret of his Gerudo origin. Gerudo males, being born once a century had an ulterior right to the throne, deemed as the King of the Gerudo, the King of Thieves—which his mother rejected due to the past stigma and history that ran through Gerudo culture, being that Gerudo-born males bought nothing but dismay and misfortune. So, she sent him on a sail boat upon a river, wrapped in a cotton swaddle, within it a scroll of parchment paper sealed at the edge by wax with the Gerudo symbol, only to be picked like fresh fruit into Eris’ arms, twenty years ago; his Mother hoping that he would have a better life than he would within Gerudo Town. Eris managed to give him such life; his dirty-work barely making enough rupees to feed them both until Inglis was of age and able to inherit such skill. From a young age, he was slicing the throats of innocents with a shining dagger, still attached to his belt as of yet—robbing men, women and children of their hard-worked spoils, instantaneously slicing them at the throat if they even began to protest by shedding a tear or opening their mouths to scream, just as he was taught. He began to be haunted by them; their dismantled corpses coming to chase him within his nightmares, to provide vengeance, justice, revenge—but Eris laughed at him every time he would wake up sweating and heaving, and he began to grow accustomed to the nightmares out of shame.

Inglis walked backward, unbuckling his belt which held a vast array of shining daggers and dropping it to the floor; untying his long coat and letting it fall as he slid down against the stone wall, his knees propped up to as his arms leaned onto them to cup his cheeks. A female figure by the name of Yara with thick, brown locks tied into a bun that wafted messily atop her skull took her place next to him, in turn sliding down against the stone as her hazel eyes glared into the fire.

Others within the room watched peevishly, silently judging as their eyes fell between the members of the trio as the conflict unfolded.

Eris loped back into a creaky wooden chair behind him, his right eyebrow twitching, his knee bobbing impatiently and his fingers throbbing as he bit as his fingernails and cuticles. There was silence for a while as he couldn’t seem to remain still until he burst out, his hands in the air as he yelled, “Please, how _wasn’t_ it them, Inglis?” His hands went in his hair as he ruffled it.“Have _you_ ever seen a pair, let alone both with golden hair? A glowing sword? A rectangular device with fancy engravings? They’re exactly who I described, the _bonafide_ deal, and yet—”

“Cut him some slack, sire,” Yara spoke, interrupting him. Eris gritted his teeth, almost spitting as he leant back in his chair, his neck tilted up toward the ceiling as locks of his hair sought to cover his eyes.

“Inglis, you know I treasure you, you’re my prize, after all…” he looked at him just above the edge of his eyelids. He then leant forward, unsheathing his sickle from his belt; his bare, ripped and torn calloused fingers uncovered by his black leather gloves going to slide along its sharpness. His eyes began slowly darting between Inglis and Yara, a downright _dangerous_ grin tugging at his cheeks as he whispered, “But, if you’re lying to me… I’m afraid you won’t like the consequences. I’ll soon see for myself, anyway.”

Inglis gulped, his Adam’s apple dislodging in his throat as he swallowed his own bile.

* * *

The first thing she always heard was a heartbeat, echoing to the tips of her ears and down her spine, trailing to every nerve ending within her body. Her vision, after a while, eventually cleared in the darkness encompassing them as fire began consuming another torch which Link doused before her; a dense oak shaft with tightly woven linen and cloth as it’s wick which was soaked in naphtha and swabs of cooking oil and sealed with stearin and beeswax.

Link scouted ahead of her, his foot steps light and echoing throughout the glistening luminous stone lined cavern. There was also the sound of his sword, the way he would snap it from it’s metal sheath with the flick of his thumb, the hissing, ominous sound of cutting flesh—and then silence, before he would yet again return to her; never volunteering any information regarding the fresh blood staining his boots.

Their descent bought the attention of soot, choking and intoxicating them with each singular inhale and exhale. Their torches became ineffective,leaving them in but a mere circle of warm amber light as they were blanketed in even deeper darkness than previously. But there was a glow—that of the foreign inscriptions the same colour of the luminous stone lining the cavern which appeared before them spontaneously.

Her instinct told her to follow it; to seek out its truths.

Upon doing so, they eventually reached a room; an atrium, of sorts. The inscriptions which swirled toward the entry ceased upon their arrival; dispersing into the air as mere embers and azure dust alike that of luminous spirits. She placed her foot onto the newfound flooring, a step lower from where they previously stood, and the torch she held flared; its viscous flame dulling and faltering into nothingness alike the inscriptions. Link quickly grabbed another torch from the summoning of the Sheikah slate, dousing it and striking a piece of flint with his sword unto it to no avail; so she grabbed his hand, forcing him to drop it. Together, they walked forward in the darkness; hesitantly taking steps into the unknown, the unseen. In the centre, it became clear that there was a figure; what seemed like an arm, a hand, the same colour and hue of the inscriptions which led them there, along with the luminous stones. It enlightened the room partially, allowing the pair to view its unique characteristics; long, slender fingers and animalistic claws, its length shackled with dulled, golden jewellery and fine detailing within its glow and pulsation. It trailed taller toward the ceiling and eventually began to fade into the inscriptions, swirling and whirling their way up to a sort of pedestal upon what seemed like the ceiling in a spiralled animation.

It wasn’t until she heard a slight _crack_ that she noticed there was something else—something larger, a familiar figure; a _body_ within the shadows. She was riveted at the sight, the horrors of the truths she sought to compel against. The ominous hand laid planted and, as if acting as a seal, clawing at what seemed like a rotting, desiccated corpse frozen in time; it’s mouth gaped open in shock as if gasping for air and pleading for mercy, it’s body staggered and overbalanced with long, dusty red hair flowing and billowing beneath it’s skull. It perfectly captured the moment of the figures demise—and a flash of light told the story on the walls for a brief second before disappearing before their eyes, leaving them to notice the roots and tendrils of malice which stemmed and writhed from it’s core beneath it like chaos; floating up toward the ceiling, encompassing the flooring, wafting throughout the air, trailing toward them and toward Link and—

She woke up, gasping and heaving and spluttering, propping herself up with her elbows.

Link was by her side instantaneously, handing her a piece of paper and a freshly filled fountain pen wet with ink. She readied herself to write what she remembered, bowing over the piece of parchment, but her memories left her just as quickly as they came, as if she had amnesia. Her powers were failing her, she was failing herself, yet again—as she was forgetting something which she _knew_ was important, a sign—an omen, whatever it may be.

He helped her stand up from the bed onto the azure stonemasonry flooring found within the entirety of Zora’s domain within the Lanayru region. She breathed and sighed in frustration, clenching her fists as she stood beneath the shelter that the dock which overlooked Reservoir lake provided. Stumbling outside of it, kneeling to splash her face with the cool water contained within the reservoir, her gaze led up toward Shatterback Point, it’s height dizzying, even from the ground—the sunshine beaming down through the holes in the cloud cover almost blinding her.

She stood and turned to find Link before the shelter conversing with Sidon quietly, watching him as he shook his head and Sidon frowned pensively—his mouth moving, but she could hear no words. Sidon noticed her gaze and quickly bowed toward her direction, and she dismissed him from afar with her hand; smiling insincerely as he approached her. Her vision was flooded with the crimson red and pearl white scales from Sidon’s stature as he towered over her, dressed in his royal Zora gear which entailed gold and silver metals and the Champion blue detailing completing the look.

“I assume you are well, Princess?” He asked, looking down at her as he was almost double her height, even when slightly kneeled.

“Yes, thank you, Sidon,” she smiled, crossing her arms against her chest.

“How are your, um… nightmares? Visions, I should say. My apologies.”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I’ve still no luck.”

“That is truly unfortunate.” He looked sincerely sorrowful.

He eventually turned and walked toward the dock, turning to face her direction again. “I’m off to the beast,” he announced, diving off of the platform and into the water with graceful elegance toward Vah Ruta; diving and landing in the water again repeatedly alike a dolphin with speed. Vah Ruta activated within his presence and roared, beginning to move with Sidon’s conscientious command.

Link walked over to her as they watched the beast. “He wished you good luck.”

“I figured,” Zelda hummed, placing her index finger on her temple and her thumb on her chin as she watched him disappear down the stairs. “He’s a nice guy—I mean, fish; _no_ , Zora. A suitable Champion. Thank you.”

They had been there for two weeks, as of yet. The first thing she sought to do was give her apologies and condolences to King Dorephan, which he gladly accepted with a hearty laugh and a dismissive smile; extending his hospitality to her, for however long. She then appointed Sidon as a Champion upon King Dorephan’s and Link’s recommendation that she rebuild and establish new forces—which she, however hesitantly, agreed upon doing, despite her thoughts opposing her in fears that she would leave harm upon them once again. And then, there was the inspection of the Divine Beast—a week ago. Vah Ruta, no longer accessible through the Sheikah Slate’s controls peaked her interest, and she sought after it with boisterous, impassioned energy.

 

She could recall the encounter through ethereal visions that would unveil themselves as she found herself blearily staring into the abyss.

She fell onto the floor inside of the divine beast, dropping the Sheikah slate before her as her palms spread out on the cool, ancient stone carvings which maintained her stature from completely collapsing. Link leant against the inner wall of the beast, breathing heavily as he looked up toward Vah Ruta’s gears which spun with timely precision; the very cause of the constant downpour bestowed upon the domain, given that they could no longer control her.

Sidon stood between them, standing tall—unfazed by both the exertion which it took to run toward the reservoir, as well as the drenched state which was natural and something of which the Zora tended to embrace. He walked over toward Zelda, extending his slender, scaled fingers to help her stand, which she gracefully took.

She stood and regained her balance, her gaze landing upon Link who walked over toward her, barely pushing Sidon out of the way to be within her proximity. With hasty fingers, he unfastened his cloak at her neck and pulled it around her shoulders, allowing him to wring it free from it’s water and further throw it onto the floor away from them. He then further helped pull off her chemise, pulling it above her head and messing and tangling her long hair within the fabric in the process. She laughed, pushing him backward as he frowned, dumbfounded, allowing her to free herself; leaving her in nothing but her undershirt as she proceeded to wring her long, golden onto the stone.

“Princess, are you alright?” Sidon asked humbly, looking down at her earnestly. He then kneeled to pick up the slate for them, handing it to Zelda which she took gleefully.

“Yes,” she huffed. “Thank you for your concern, Sidon, I—“

“It’s not a problem,” He said with his hands outstretched and welcoming before giving a measly thumbs up with a glistening, teeth-baring smile.

They proceeded toward the bottom wing of the beast where the central terminal laid. When she approached, even from a distance—she was expecting malice, given the dwindling of her powers over the past century that may have failed to seal Calamity Ganon and his remnants completely. But there was none, not even a mere particle, given the information that Link provided pointing out specific areas where he found malice during the time he spent freeing Ruta from the calamity’s grasp.

Around the pedestal, a peculiar luminous script began to waft into the air toward them. Link walked backward several steps, as did Sidon, but she was entranced—it reminded her of something, something that she knew she had forgotten, something that she knew was important. The letters glistened and glowed within the enlightened sheen of her emerald eyes, and she reached out; her hand going to grasp the letters and symbols but failing to latch as they spiralled up into the air and dispersed into embers and dust. Her mouth half-gaped open in awe as her eyes widened and her eyebrows raised in curiosity. She turned, looking toward Link who watched her, the same expression as her own painted across his face. He reached out his hand toward her shoulder, his slender fingers barely scathing over the cloth of her undershirt which stuck to her damp skin. Seeing his gaze, his slightly concerned and awe-stricken frown, his hand reaching out toward her to grasp—that’s when she realised that she had seen the inscriptions before.

Like lightning, a sharp pain stabbed at the back of her skull, and she fell to the ground, gripping her head and pulling at her hair as she groaned and screamed. Link fell with her, yelling her name and attempting to shake her to consciousness as her emerald eyes seeping with pained tears were dull, emotionless and devoid of all life—blearily staring into his soul as she viewed the visions through them in their current time. They came to her like a flood, vivid as day, coursing through her veins and arteries in her blood stream, reaching the peak of her spine to her brain and rushing down each and every one of her nerves. The luminescent text shared the same colour of the luminous stones said to hold the souls of the deceased. Within seconds, she recalled every minor time whereby she had come across them throughout their travels, and she could finally see the embers and flames within the azure, bright glow that illuminated with coming twilight and shadow.

It held the same flames and embers she believed she saw atop Hyrule castle that fateful day upon defeating Calamity Ganon, the spirits and souls of the Champions and her Father whom looked down upon her before dispersing into the wind, into the depths of the castle. It held the same flame that she occasionally saw within Link’s eyes every time she had looked into them within the darkness, the luminescent and azure sapphire glow looking down upon her, into her soul—a small flame lingering and burning within them with a passion, allowing her to look into his own soul, his very being.

She suddenly came to, a coat of sheen glistening over her impassioned eyes as opposed to the null, void darkness they had during the visions. Her tears ceased and she mustered the energy to smile at him, weakly, and then instantaneously fainted into his arms, energy spent, entwined within his hold.

 

“She’s awake,” was the first thing she heard, barely audible. “Get Link.” It was Sidon’s voice, deep and masculine and unfamiliar, as she mostly only recalled and recognised his child-like voice from a century ago.

She opened her eyes, clearing her vision; met with Sidon who peered down upon her stature.

Sidon sighed in relief. “I’m so glad you have come to, Princess.”

Shocked, she propped herself up from the waterbed of the inn onto her elbows as she searched the room. “Where’s Link?” She burst out. “What happened to him?”

Sidon was taken-aback. “N-Nothing, your Grace. He is fine, he is just training over at the reservoir.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, leaning forward, allowing her hands gripping Sidon’s shoulders as she shook with worry; for her nightmares had been taunting her during her rest.

At that moment, Link, heaving from running from the reservoir back to the domain appeared in the corner of her peripheral at the entrance to the inn. Tears welled in her eyes as she released Sidon and outstretched her arms toward Link. He dropped his sword to the inn’s stone floor and ran toward her, falling into her and embracing her lightly, one of his palms going to rest on the top of her forehead to check her for fevers.

He leant back, evidently distressed. “Are you okay? How do you feel? What do you remember?”

Zelda was shocked. She had never received such a bombardment of questions, let alone from Link who barely spoke. “O-Oh… I’m okay. What do you mean, _what do I remember_?”

“Do you remember being in Vah Ruta?” Sidon interrupted.

“Y-Yes…” She stuttered.

“Then?” He persisted.

“I, um… I don’t—I don’t know. Am I supposed to remember something?”

Link sighed at her words, leaning back from her embrace with his hands in his hair.

Sidon took the lead yet again, explaining to her the details of the glowing inscriptions amongst the beast’s central control terminal, along with her physical and emotional wreckage.

“We went to the beast. Without problems, at first, apart from the rain,” he began, smiling awkwardly. “Then, we went to the pedestal—but there was luminous inscriptions, scribes, I couldn’t understand them, nor could Link—and that’s when you fell to the floor, screaming and crying.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t exactly remember… _that_. The inscriptions, however… I remember them. They feel familiar, but that’s all I really…”

“It’s fine,” Link said, his hand going to rest on top of hers briefly before returning to his hair.

“You’re okay. You’re alive. That is what is important, here, dear Princess,” Sidon said. “I’ll let you two catch up.”

Sidon left, allowing the pair to be alone again—which is what they preferred. He told her how he, with ease, initiated Sidon as the pilot of the Divine Beast. Once she had interacted with the inscriptions, they disappeared; allowing control of the beast to be initiated with the Sheikah Slate once again.

“I used the slate to initiate him as the controller,” he said, pushing the slate toward her to view. “He then heard the voice.”

“That’s great. All went ideally to plan, I predict?”

He nodded.

“How did he go with operating it?” She then asked.

“Well—“

“Difficult? I would have expected that, but—”

“No... He’s fine, now,” Link stuttered, as there was some… initial shock and miscalculations when operating the beast under Sidon’s conscience. That is, Sidon caused heavy downpour for a whole day by not factoring in Vah Ruta’s internal gears within his consciousness.

She smiled weakly, her eyelids drooped as she reached out toward him and pulling him closer to her again. His gasp and shock came out as a muffled gasp within her chemise which caused her to laugh, tickling him from the vibration. He then wrapped his arms slenderly around her, and bought her down to the bed’s surface, allowing his hands to explore her long, golden locks like thick, silky twine and thread throughout his fingers.

 

Her face turned sideways to Link who stood beside her; their shoulders almost touching within their enclosed proximity as she looked out toward the reservoir. She thought of the memory—him within her arms, the warmth of their conjoined bodies encircling them both.

He was never like that, a century ago. He used to be stiff, almost like a statue. But together, when they were alone, they didn’t have to worry about the castle, the crown, the court, the order that was unmaintained for a century. Now, there was no retreating to solitude with sleep when they were on the bed together out of common courtesy. Now, there was companionship, in which the past Link would have froze upon and perhaps only followed through as something in which he viewed as his duty, his role as his appointed knight, common courtesy.

It was different. It was what she wished for, a century ago. It was what she despised, a week ago. But finally, now, she was grateful.

She laughed, for no apparent reason, perhaps at her trivial thoughts—and he smiled in return; leaning and resting his head against her shoulder lightly, allowing the tip of her pointed ear to poke the softness of his cheek. She blushed feverishly; her eyes wide, her eyebrows raised, her mouth, previously entranced with a laugh gaped open in a gasp in shock.

“Let’s go,” He whispered calmly, his eyes closed peacefully as he leant against her with a warm smile spread across his cheeks.

For the remainder of the second week, she had begun formulating proposals, hypotheses—regarding the inscriptions and vivid visions and nightmares she sought to find the truths of onto jumbled pieces of parchment paper and diaries gifted to her by the Zora within the domain. One of Impa’s subordinates had also met with her during the week, delivering her a letter with the Sheikah seal waxed over the press. The letter was written by Purah, detailing her recent discoveries regarding a form of ancient magic and technology that she had detected upon searching for energy deposits.

She read it aloud to him when it was delivered in her hands, and he watched her as she raised her eyebrow and without a second thought announced their plans to redirect their course to Hateno village, yet again.

“Yes,” she whispered in reply to him, sighing contently as she finally leant her head against his.

* * *

Spring wildflowers wilted in the afternoon sun which turned to summer heat, even in the gentle hills and cool pastures surrounding Hateno and outside of the quaint cottage which were protected by mountain scapes. The ethereal beauty of twilight seemed to revive them a little, and the morning dew would do the rest of the job—and the process would then repeat itself, yet again throughout the day.

Much alike she.

Zelda took the long way back to the village, gathering every herb, mushroom and flower that peaked her interest—somehow managing to juggle them between her arms against her chest. She didn’t really _need_ to; they had more than enough rupees to buy anything, and between the pantry and storage crates in the cottage and the extramundane summoning technology of the ancient sheikah slate, they probably had more food and materials than what was in all of Necluda as a whole.

But she was lost in thought—entranced in prophecies, theories, hypotheses and the like and inconclusive results given the evidence of energy sources sited across the realm. She was trying to find a source, the origin of her visions and nightmares which entranced her with every sleep and left her with every wake just as quickly.

She squared her tense shoulders and stepped onto the main road that led down to the village from the ranch—greeting the villagers who waved to her and offered their words of welcome. She had gotten better at this, she needed to—given that a constructionist had spilt word of her royal tittle; so she smiled back, accepting the small items they would tuck into her already full hands and making small talk where necessary.

A particular woman caught Zelda’s eye—a Hylian, no taller or broader in stature than herself. She was pale skinned with brunette hair in a bun atop her head, her uncontrolled hairline kept at bay by the use of a red bandana tied around it. She was no ordinary villager, nor traveller—rather, a fighter. She had two swords attached to either side of her belt along with an array of small daggers and knives which didn’t seem to weigh her down in the slightest. She had a bow, whose string was wrapped around her chest and it’s quiver full of dried, bloodstained arrows. Haggling with shopkeepers within their stalls, she could clearly see that the Hylian eyed her in the corner of her peripheral, her line of sight—a weak, insincere smile spreading across her thin lips as she dismissed the shopkeeper and tossed them a rupee for their troubles and walked away.

 

When she got back to the house and dumped the things into the crates, she practiced her swordsmanship for about an hour in the flower field. And then her archery for another thirty minutes, splintered arrows from sticks and twigs landing in the log of the tree to be reused time after time. Link said she didn’t need too—she was already adept; that is, greater than the ordinary traveller, and he knew she was torn between dedicating time to both her combat skills and studies; but she shook her head, vowing that it would prove useful one day.

Afterward, she bowed over her work yet again, folding herself on a floor cushion—spreading out the precious maps of Hyrule that Purah had leant to her across the floorboards of the cottage and weighting the corners with pebbles she collected and skipped across the river and ponds. Beside her, she had her stacked notebooks, diaries and odd, jumbled pieces of parchment paper—some already filled to the clean and jagged-cut edges with ink, some blank and ready for words to be written upon them. In her hands, she held the slate. It showed everything the maps showed and with greater accuracy than anything drawn on the fragile parchments—but the slate and parchment, intricate-ink drawn maps only held the terrain world of _Hyrule_ alone _._ It knew nothing of the world which may lie beyond the vastness of treacherous seas and desolate riverbeds, or what hid beyond the scouring sands and unpredictable thunder storms within the Gerudo desert. It showed only what was on the surface—lacking intel into the caves and caverns which she had ventured and braved within her journeys by his side, a hidden underground kingdom unbeknownst to mankind.

“This is ridiculous,” she announced to herself, almost swearing under her breath as she dropped the slate and her hands went in her hair, clawing at her skull. She was trying to pinpoint a location of the energies, the supposed magic Purah had entailed, relating it to her visions—but her results came up inconclusive.

At that moment, Link walked through the door. She knew it was him by the sound of his quiet steps after he kicked off his boots with a few taps of it’s tip against the floor. He smelt of horse, even from the door—likely, their own horses to the side of the house—the sweet smell of hay, fruit and freshly cut grass wafting toward her. He trudged up to the loft, hitting the creak in the third and seventh step, gathering fresh pants and an undershirt from the drawers, opening the windows beside the stairs and the bed and leaving out the front door yet again. Without a word.

A few minutes after, the sound of water splashing suggested he was bathing in the pond—as he usually did. Even though they had a perfectly good wood-fired bathtub to the side of the house and a basin in the washroom. He even used them both on occasion.Soon came the tune of a flute, an ocarina to be specific, hand woven by himself, which wafted throughout the air as Link’s creative fingers toyed with the embouchure holes in sync with the wind he blew through it’s thin maple shaft. It was the indistinct but recognisable tune of a common lullaby sang to Hylian children as they wafted off to sleep, alike that of which her mother hummed and sang to her with an angelic voice before her passing.

Afterward, he walked into the cottage—a towel flung over his damp hair which cascaded messily around his shoulders, untied from it’s usual ponytail. She looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow before turning toward her work yet again. “You’re going to catch a cold dressed like that.”

He looked erratic and downright _dangerous,_ dressed in nothing but a thin chemise and shorts which revealed the contours, indents and scars littered upon his skin. He shrugged at her as he walked over to the stove, lighting it by turning the valve with his hasty fingers, watching as the low gas flame enlightened the old, dainty casket pot from beneath.

He gaped at the ingredients in the crates and wooden basin which stored the fresh cold dairy goods wrapped in cotton, positioned at the edge of it’s curved wall in such a way that the cloth came into contact with the water and kept them from spoiling. He picked up the jar of cream and the glass bottle of milk that Zelda had received earlier in the day, dishing out half of the cream into the casket and pouring in three quarters of the milk before twisting the cork screws back in place and positioning them back into the water. He watched the fluid gurgle and bubble over his shoulder as he organised various flavourful and colourful ingredients onto the wooden cutting board on the table in the centre of the room, a freshly sharpened knife at the ready; allowing him to cut mushrooms into fine slices and dice leafy herbs, garlic and onion into fine portions. He incorporated and tossed them altogether in a bowl with his hands before dumping the mixture into the broth and sprinkling grated rock salt on top of it. In another pan, he quickly doused it’s surface with oil and cut up a large piece of fresh venison from a kill into bite-size portions, tossing and simmering it with sweetly spiced rice and quinoa seed.

Soon enough, he equally distributed the meat and rice onto two deep plates, perhaps, a spoonful or two more on his own—placing them on either side of the table and pouring the creamy mushroom broth into a flagon. In the centre of the table laid left over fruit cake from yesterday’s banquet blanketed with cream and fresh fruits resting under a woven breadbasket. To the side, he poured her fresh herbal tea.

He signalled to her by pulling out her chair and nodding to the table with a smile. She took her seat and he pushed her in quickly, the wooden chair legs scraping against the floorboards roughly. He ran to his own, messily sitting down on the edge to dig into his feast—taking the initiative to pour the broth to the side of his meat and rice before picking up a piece of simmering, oil-slicked venison with his fingers and practically sliding it down his throat.

“I visited Purah again today,” she announced after finishing her meal, wiping the edges of her rosy lips with a handkerchief.

Link hummed in reply, tipping his chin to acknowledge her. “She say anything different this time?”

“No,” Zelda confessed with a sigh.

Link hummed in reply again.

“The data is inconclusive. A scatter plot, at best,” she signalled to the Sheikah slate laying upon the floor in a mess of parchment maps, papers, diaries and books; referring to her inconclusive results regarding the origins of the energy and seals now evident across the realm, deep within the earth. “Do you think twenty-three is a lot?”

He raised his eyebrow, his tea cup in front of his mouth. “Depends. Rupees, no. Murders, yes.”

“ _Not_ what I meant,” she replied with a grimace, continuing, “twenty-three plots all over Hyrule. Twenty-three potential locations deep beneath the earth.”

He placed his teacup into it’s saucer, stirring the metallic teaspoon around its rim which created a sort of brainwashing echo throughout the room.

“There’s no way we will find the source of it—that is, the cause and origin of my recurrent visions. I know it’s a warning—I know it, and yet, there’s a hundred thousand anomalies whenever we put the sources together, and there’s no pattern whatsoever. No matter how I sort it. No matter how many times I retry, thinking perhaps, just maybe, I made an error.” She clenched her fists against the table. “Even if it’s only twenty-three, we have to factor in excavation and the mere time, cost and technology it would require to reach such depths. Along with people, that we don’t really have.”

He dropped the spoon to the side of the saucer and sipped from the edge of the teacup. He then cut a piece of fruit bread, gesturing the dull breadknife to her to which she shook her head at, her elbows meeting the auxiliary table surface and her palms meeting her cheeks as he held their silence for a while. “What do you feel?” He asked suddenly after he had chowed down on a slice.

“The data—“

“I’m not referring to the _data_. Not everything fits neatly into numbers and columns and formulas, like Purah and Robbie think.” He stared her down intently, setting his tea cup aside into it’s small saucer. He then wiped the breadcrumbs off of the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.

“Feelings don’t matter. It is data which will lead us to some conclusions here.”

“Maybe,” he pouted his lips and shrugged ignorantly, “But your powers didn’t awaken for you a century ago because of _data._ It was the opposite.”

She crossed her arms. “I suppose so, but I didn’t really... feel _anything_ before the calamity. I certainly wasn’t tantalised by nightmares and visions of prophecies forgotten by time and also myself once I woke. I certainly didn’t stress over where to find further information regarding them also, as all of the books I read that _should_ hold the slightest detail just… don’t. Ripped pages. Missing information. Gaps within the timeline. The thoughts themselves never even arose, alike now. The powers just weren’t there, one minute, and the next, they were.”

“But what _about_ now?” He positioned his fingers beneath his chin, his elbows positioned into the wooden grain.

“I can’t let my feelings bias my work,” she said abruptly.

“But what do your feelings _say_? What does your voice tell you? That sounds… _stupid_ , but you know what I mean.”

“I don’t know... I don’t know how explain it, really. It’s not really a voice more than it is a feeling. It’s a feeling I’ve had since we encountered that Gerudo man and he mentioned the word. None of the data Purah or I conclude supports it, though, so again, I _can’t_ let it bias my work. She’s written to Robbie, but he won’t be coming down for a while until he organises a way to bring along his tech—or, Cherry.”

Link sighed. “Taken together, all at once, it does look like spilled rice.”

She nodded. “There’s chaos and havoc everywhere. More monsters, stronger than usual— _you_ already know that. Ancient technologies still thriving weakly with bits of corroded malice within their engravings, as we saw past the fort. It just doesn’t make sense. Any of it.”

His eyes slipped closed in thought, remaining that way for a few seconds before he breathed, “Well, where is the _most_ havoc?”

She paused, looking up to the ceiling as she fumbled the pad of her fingers against her lips. “South west.”

He stood, stacking their plates into a messy pile of crockery and utensils. “Then we’ll go south west.”

 

Hours later at the dawn at night, Link was well asleep. She escaped to the pond beside the house, carrying a bundle of fresh clothes against her chest. She felt a change was necessary—so she used the pond instead of the basin in the bathhouse or the wood-fire tub to the side of it.

She was bare and naked in the chill of spring’s night breeze; her hair propped up on the rocks behind her back as she rested against it’s cool surface, scrubbing at every inch of her skin with her fingers, knuckles and a damp towelette. Unalike Link, she was out in a few minutes, unable to stand the cold—she wrapped the towel that hung over the tree branch around her figure and messily pat-dried herself with it’s edges and corners to the areas that it could reach. She then sat down against the dry rocks, her fingers going to brush and coax at her long, silky golden locks that encompassed her figure over her shoulder as she brought it to her frontside. She began braiding it low—her fingers intertwining with it’s threads and interlocking the strands with precision and care.

She was half way done when she heard the sheathing of a sword, and she jumped forward instantaneously, a pure reflex—hugging the towel to her chest and dropping her hair.

All of her senses heightened in that moment. Her nostrils inhaled the familiar metallic, iron and dust-bound scent of blood. Her ears twitched upon hearing drips—the subtle sound of liquid falling into the tall blades of grass in the night beneath her. Her eyes hesitantly looked down upon her stature and saw golden locks of her hair, spread around her and in her grasp like fallen leaves—along with red, vicious blood like malice oozing from the peak of her stature and dripping down her now stained towel, trailing down her arm and to the tips of her fingers where they fell unto the earth, shrouded in the shadows of twilight.

She turned in shock, pressing one hand against the peak of her left shoulder to be met with a vicious sting and copiously flowing moisture—fresh blood from herself, an open wound; a deep laceration down to the subcutaneous layer of fat and nerve upon her shoulder as she looked toward it in the corner of her eye.

The other hand went to grip where her sword would have laid fastened to her belt in it’s scabbard; that is, if she was dressed in her traveller’s gear—as she continuously gripped at air and failed to latch. Instead, she held her towel, pressing it hard toward her bare and barren body in attempts to maintain some privacy and dignity before she met the figure in front of her.

Brunette hair atop their head in a messy bun—a bandana wrapped around their hairline to control the wisps. Deep, hazel eyes which stared her down intently, half-closed and relaxed, accompanied with a light smile across her thin lips which peaked at the crevice of her dimpled cheeks. It was insincere, as if with hidden intentions—the same of which she had seen from the Hylian earlier in the day who haggled at the shopping stalls in the village, as if murderous intent and acts were mere child’s play.

She held a sword in each hand propositioned before her, unsheathed from either side of her belt, an array of sheathed daggers of different lengths and shapes along it’s length still remaining. She took long, agonising and burgeoning steps forward toward Zelda; each causing her to stagger backward another, her mouth opening to call Link’s name to find that her throat was choked and deprived of words which would be either her saviour or demise.

It wasn’t until she noticed the sapphire blue overcasting her shadow in the moonlight shrouded by clouds that she turned, the clear hysterical tears slipping from her eye slits and dispersing into the air as she rotated with haste, her hair following and shrouding her in darkness and the hue of his sword—and there he was, looking forward at the Hylian and staring her down intently with incorrigible frustration.

She had seen the unfamiliar expression of his before, once, close to two months ago when he had the tip of the sword directed at the Gerudo’s vitality, barely seeping into the dark olive skin of his throat. This time, though, his gaze was more intense—threatening; animalistic, even, like the eyes of a beast stalking his long awaited prey in the shadows. His sapphire eyes glowed, beaming and fierce alike the sword, enlightened with a ferocious, savage anger and a blazing, dancing flame which left a flickering strand of blue light as he lunged himself toward her with the speed of the wind.

At that moment, she would have believed him if he called himself a God. It was truly, utterly veracious—as if the spirit of a God alike herself with the Goddess resided inside of his feeble bodied stature with such exhibition of power and courage.

The Hylian propositioned the two swords in front of her defensively, the two blades forming a cross as they came into contact with Link’s own, the sound of metal against metal striking and echoing throughout the night—her feeble blades barely exhibiting enough strength to prevent the shaking of the hilt in her grasp as the hold of his own goddess-forged steel became stronger and greater against her. One of her blades faltered, allowing him the brief chance to push forward and bury her into the earth—his sword which would have sliced at her vitality prevented by the now single blade she defended it with.

“Who are you?” He hissed at her, his other hand going to grab her hand which gripped the spare sword and positioning it above her head. He pressed his knee against her thigh, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pressing his knuckles into them, in turn feeling a _snap_ within the skin against his own—the bone and tendon lining her from within cracking in the slightest, forcing the Hylian to scream out in pain and drop the weapon.

She then smiled, opening her mouth to speak, “Just someone,” she explained between winced shaky and heaving breaths, “trying to deliver the untold prophecy.” Her knee then positioned itself beneath the gap between the two of his legs, suddenly nudging upward which allowed her enough leeway to grab at one of the sheathed daggers in her belt and heave it above her, toward Zelda’s direction.

His eyes widened and he gasped in shock, spluttering and gritting his teeth at the impact and swell of pressure between his legs. In a second, he stumbled off of her, steeling himself to chase the dagger, only to watch it land in the oak trunk of the tree which overshadowed the pond—a way’s off from Zelda. He hastily turned back to face her, ready to deliver a divine retribution; but she was then gone without a trace—a few messy, mud-trudged footsteps leading off of the cliff face and then disappearing in thin air. He was prepared to chase her—to grab his cloak from the coat stand just before the door inside the cottage, throw it over his figure to disguise himself and stalk the perpetrator off into the night until Zelda whispered his name like a prayer off of the peak of her swollen lips.

He turned in response, walking over to her and falling before her on his knees in exhaustion, dropping the sword to the side of them which glowed and illuminated the pair in the darkness within it’s safe sapphire hue. She sat there in front of him, golden locks of hair fallen around her like autumn leaves leaves, her left side and her right arm stained with fresh blood as she gripped at her wound with it—the escaped trailing down onto the towel being all that covered her from the night breeze and his shadowed, sorrowful eyes.

“O-Oh,” he whispered shakily, his trembling hands reaching for her left shoulder, his calloused fingers grazing over the open wound’s length gently as she moved her hand away and permitted him access. He quickly lifted his shirt above his shoulders, bundling it together in a messed heap of cloth and placing it on the wound—which she hovered her hand above and pressed firmly into her now branded skin.

He threw the sword over him and shuffled closer to her on his knees, his arm wrapping around her back to the underneath of her unharmed shoulder and the underneath of her knees, and she flailed in protest; weakly thrashing her limbs and hitting and kicking him with her legs as she held her towel in one hand and the shirt upon the wound in the other, her cries coming out messily, muffled and ashamed as she pleaded for him to leave her be. She eventually gave in as he waited there, looking in the other direction to give her _some_ sense of dignity as he swaddled her against her jurisdiction. Once permitted, he carried her up toward the loft in the cottage, avoiding the creak in the third and seventh step; his steps more even and steady, his movements more slow and gentle than she could ever recall as he softly lowered her onto the bed and faced her toward the wall.

He closed his eyes, looking in the other direction as his fingers tucked beneath the ruffled seam of the towel against her back; and in a brisk movement, he pulled it toward him, discarding it to the wooden floorboards beneath the balustrades of the loft, leaving her bare and exposed. She trembled in protest, a strangled cry and whine escaping her lips, but he quickly replaced the towel with the futon blanket—wrapping it around her cowered stature and tucking it into her sides which she gratefully took and enveloped herself within.

He then retreated to the drawers next to the bed, just in front of the stairs—pulling out old, unneeded shirts and quickly unfolding them, ruffling them in the air—tearing and ripping them at the hem where they could be used as bandages to spiral and envelop the entirety of her open wound. He walked up to her again, biding time behind her as he waited for her to lower the blanket to her chest, which she did cautiously; allowing him to quickly cover the shirt she held in place with her hand with a segment of ripped bandage—wrapping it around the awkward position between her shoulder and her armpit tightly and sealing it with a hastily knotted bow.

He then stepped back, dumping the rest of the clothing sheets tangled within his shaky hands onto the bedside and opening his mouth to speak with a hitched breath, “What—what do I…”

“Hyrulean herb,” she whispered shakily in reply, looking over her shoulder as perfect beads of moisture formed within the swell of her eyelids and her eyebrows furrowed in thought. She recalled the times whereby she dressed his own; hyrulean herb for hastened healing properties, armoranth for the formation of scars and rock salt for the absorption of infection and any additional moisture that could cause it. “And… armoranth. Rock salt. The pestle... is—is downstairs.”

He nodded, hastily running downstairs as his bare-footed movements on the floorboards echoed throughout the room. He began to sort through the items in the crates beside the wall and within their various bags and knapsacks just laying around—his eyes suddenly landing on purple and green, the correct materials, and he pulled them out flush and eager, not caring for the clambering mess he made in the process as he tucked them toward his chest in the nooks of his arm and ran to grab the mortar and pestle which rested on the small surface of the kitchenette. He sat down on the bed next to her, dumping the ingredients before her and she turned, using the slight movements of her weak fingers to snap the herbs from their stems, removing the buds of the Hyrulean herb and placing them into the pestle and gesturing for him to remove the armoranth seeds from their tough shell. He did, cracking the intricately scaled casing open with his teeth and pulling it apart with his strong, flexible fingers before dumping the various seeds in and grinding it with a singular rock of slightly pink hued salt—adding a dollop of water from his waterskin to the mixture and grinding it to form a stagnant sticky, greyish-brown paste.

She nodded when it was ready, turning and gesturing toward her back as she lowered the blanket to her chest yet again, leaving her shoulder and back barren and bare and exposed. “Don’t be scared,” she proclaimed, half biased by her own words.

He shook his head, swallowing his own bile that lavished in the base of his throat. He proceeded to pick up the thread of cloth, tearing it into small bandaged pieces and lathering the herbal concoction onto its surface methodically with his index and middle finger which shook involuntarily against his will. Laying the strips to the side, he then quickly proceeded to remove the inadequate, hastily-made dressing which blood still barely seeped out of—and hesitantly, he placed the strips of new dressing upon the wound’s surface; causing her hiss through her gritted teeth, from the sting of the salt, she thought—tears forming in her eyes and falling down her red and inflamed cheeks as she begun to whimper, clenching her fists in her lap. She didn’t know how he did it—every time she would dress his newfound scars from battles, how he would not flinch; perhaps, maybe, they were not nearly as painful as the burdens upon his shoulders that she had caused.

Upon hearing and _feeling_ her reaction below their point of contact, he hurried his movements; quickly sealing the dressings lathered with sticky sludge with the shirt wrap by which he wrapped and pulled tight around her skin and sealed with greater pressure than before with a tight reef knot upon her frontside, right next to her collarbone. He frowned at his work. How _inadequate_ , he thought—he already knew that she would scar greater from his incompetence.

“I’ll—I’ll run a bath,” he announced, unsure of what to do next. She nodded, looking down between her knees which crossed themselves and sunk into the futon. Her eyes slipped closed, a furrow forming between her brows as she bit her bottom lip, and she looked ashamed and guilty and sorrowful and utterly enthrallingly _beautiful,_ all of the new areas of soft, porcelain skin and _her_ exposed to him somehow peculiar in a perfect way. After being entranced in an incorrigible stare for a few brief seconds, burning the image of her into his memory and hoping and praying to the Goddesses that he wouldn’t forget it even if he were to be carted off to the shrine of resurrection once again, he turned and waddled outside, dousing the fire pit beneath the bathtub next to the entrance to the interior of the bathhouse and enlightening it with the striking of a piece of flint upon his sword. There was already some water in it, but he quickly retrieved another few buckets from the pond—pouring them in and waiting as the water slowly heated and gurgled above the logs in the basin.

He then summoned her, holding and gripping her hand tightly in reassurance as her other held the blanket around her pressed to her chest, and he slowly brought her down the stairs and to outside; luring her on the gravel pathway which trailed to the back of the house where the bathhouse entrance laid. He put out the flame by throwing a bucket of water onto it—leaving the water hot and them both in darkness; the only thing they could see being the crescent moon and the warm light emitting from the glass-paned windows of the house which didn’t seem to reach them.

He heard her drop the blanket onto the dirt and stone and step into the water leisurely; her curled toes testing the sultry water before she sunk into it’s depths and picked up the cloth laying on the panel end. Scrubbing the blood off of herself without drenching her newfound dressing proved quite difficult, but she managed—either way, it wasn’t long until the water smelt of blood, _her_ blood; metallic and dusty and intoxicatingly choking with every breath. When she was done, she made a quiet noise, a hum, and he helped her step out of the water onto the gravel and handed her fresh clothes; their limbs fumbling for each other unknowingly and unanimously in the darkness. He helped her weave her now crooked, unevenly cut hair through the shirt, gently threading her arms through the sleeves and pulling it down her back before kneeling down and allowing her to step into her undergarments which he slid upward; careful not to touch her or even graze his skin upon her own in the slightest. He then wrapped a clean blanket around her, careful and gentle as one hand slithered it’s way around her unaffected shoulder and the other cusped her palms in front of them to pull her in toward the house, directing her to the fat floor pillow in front of the lit brick-strewn fireplace which encompassed the room with warmth from it’s dancing flames.

He briefly and unwillingly left her to make other arrangements—such as dousing and lighting the outside pot fire and burning the impure, blood-stained bandages and clothings within it’s licking flame. When he came back inside, she was sobbing, strangled cries and whines alike that of an injured child—one hand clasped against her chest with the blanket clutched within her fingers like a vice, the other gently scathing over her injured, softly bandaged shoulder as she held herself there.

He walked up toward her behind and _kneeled,_ as he would a century ago—his knees embedding themselves into the hard wooden floorboards, un-faltered as if practiced. His arms slowly creeped up toward her figure to wrap around her frontside, his arms forming a cross, his palms scathing upward to find their destination upon the flesh of her forearms close to her shoulders which he lightly gripped, his head going to rest against the back of her own. It was gentle and warm and perfect, however hesitant and tentative he was—and she cried, unfiltered, unceremoniously, _unbecomingly_ ; leaning back into his hold and envelopment, her forehead meeting his cheek as she felt his own silent tears fall onto her neck and later trail down to the small of her back barely stuck to by the loose muslin shirt.

His hands then slowly trailed down toward her hips, gently planting themselves on her exasperatingly contoured curves with a light squeeze and tenderness in his limbs; and her hand went to cusp his cheek behind her as he pulled her backward into his chest further. She could feel the way he folded into her, the way he enveloped in her warmth—the contours of his stoic, bare and barren chest which she lavished in and memorised and the gentle, softer flesh of his lower regions and limbs which wrapped around her own. He pushed her back by the shoulders, slowly turning her to face him; a hand behind her affected shoulder to assist the process smoothly. Planting his knees on either side of her hips, his hands retreated to his own sides and formed into clenched fists, and she reached for him—a palm scathing over his cheek and cusping him with a light squeeze and a weak smile painting her face. He grabbed the outstretched limb and pulled her into him again, and they embraced each other properly this time—Zelda rising onto her knees and climbing into his lap, her arms looping around his back and her heels pressing at his small; his legs intertwining and locking her there as he embedded his head in the crook of her neck.

She tilted her head to lean against his, smiling weakly as she looked to the creaky wooden door which enclosed them in privacy within the cottage. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her palm going to stroke his luscious, wild locks now longer than hers in propriety.

His eyes widened and he gasped through gritted teeth, his searing hot breath planting itself on the skin of her neck as his own buried itself within her shoulder to hook her closer. His arms gripped and clawed at the fabric of her thin white chemise just below her ribs, close to the small of her back—desperately seeking purchase, seeking her impassioned and boisterous self to provide him some closure. He had been holding it in for a while—he never really showed true empathy, fear or sorrow; not with her, not to her, not _for_ her.

He finally pushed her back after his and her own cries calmed, planting one of his palms around her luscious cheek, the other tilting her head slightly downward to look at the floorboards between them and between their legs, shaky and faltering. He moved closer to her by shuffling just barely, hesitantly—allowing their proximity to near. His ears then began to twitch, the subtle flicking sound which reminded her of crickets jumping in the grass, her blood dropping onto it’s blades—and she finally realised.

He was _nervous._

Link—the Hero of Hyrule, her appointed knight chosen by the sword that seals the darkness and the prophecy untold. Link, whom arose from the shrine of resurrection after a century without memory or falter, dedicating himself to his unbeknownst quest by climbing the highest mountains, scaling the greatest waterfalls, harnessing the lightning contained within the unpredictable desert storms and braving fire and ice without so much as a second thought for his own life. Link, who sealed the calamity with a final blow and found his way back to her with just the goddess-forged sword upon his back and the courage in his heart—was _nervous._

He felt her smile against his skin. “Why are you nervous?” she queried with a whisper, “It’s just me.”

He shook his head repeatedly, leaning back to look her in the eyes. She could only describe his face as a look that entailed pain, sorrow and failure—squinted eyes, furrowed eyebrows and lips parted just a fraction where his teeth could be seen grinding against each other in anger. It then turned into a look of tenderness that she could only describe as reverence, his eyes burning into every inch of her skin and his hands twitching against her cheeks as if she was so fragile to the point of breakage. “It’s—It’s not _just you…_ You’ll never be _just anything,_ Zelda…” He then leant closer to her again, his pointed, curved nose with slight sun-kissed freckles from their travels slowly making it’s way toward the left side of her face. He found his destination within the crescent swell of her left cheek enlightened with a soft rose hue; where he pressed inward and against her just slightly—just enough for her to feel the pressure and his presence alongside his shuddering hot, rigid breath which trailed down her jawline. He then made his way across her nose to her right cheek, doing the same and giving it equal amounts of attention before he finished at the peak of her forehead—his head shaking from left to right slightly to rub his nose against it. His thumb then went to graze over her soft, plump lips—parting them slightly as he pressed before retracting the now sweet, plum-scented thumb and placed it against his own.

She remembered. It was an intimate form of affection that existed between Zora couples to be wedded within Zora’s domain; his second home-bound city during his childhood. He too remembered seeing the acts, despite fragments of his memory shattered into fine pieces of glass.

“ _Zelda_ ,” he breathed her name off of the tip of his tongue as he lightly pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes slipping closed, his hands retreating to her cheeks yet again as his fingertips levelled in the roots of her golden locks. She began to mewl, barely audible sounds escaping her closed lips originating from the base of her throat. How dishonourable, she thought—how _unbecoming_ of she, a princess, to writhe and shiver in his very hold at the result of the actions of his hands against her skin. She thought she should stop; she reminded herself to not act out of turn despite her want to touch his bare chest, to feel his scars and contours of his physique, to kiss him all over, to hear him whine like she in her own hold.

He heard every one of her exhilarating rasps and strangled whines as his hands continued to venture upon her skin; and he squeezed and pinched her cheeks between his fingers in reaction, a reflex—mostly, in disgust, shock and dismay at his own impure, blashpehmous thoughts that began arising within his consciousness. He thought that despite his touch, the ethereal warmth of her skin seeping and burning into his own, his want and need to divulge further into the hidden parts of her skin unbeknownst to his delectable eyes, it was improper; she’s a princess soon to be Queen, and he’s just a _knight._

But little did he know—she doesn’t care about royal titles separating he and she, coronations and proclamations of impeding laws and statutes or meetings with potential suitors in the impeding future that Impa would undoubtedly soon offer organisation for. Because, truly, she just wants _him,_ in all of his entirety; his kindness, his fierceness, his loyalty, his intelligence and braveness along with his love, his sorrows, and even his body; the contours of his physique, his scars and linings as burdens on his skin, his unseens only for her eyes. She turned her head into his palm deeper, exposing the surface of her neck which allowed his other hand to skim over her against his own jurisdiction before trailing up to her free cheek. He then finally pulled back, looking her in the eye as both of his hands finally interlocked with her own. He leant forward, agonisingly slow; her vision incapacitated with the colour of his skin and the length of his contoured neck and shoulders as he closed the proximity between them by planting a soft, feather-light kiss onto her forehead with his trembling, swollen and bruised lips.

* * *

“Was that necessary, though? You could have killed her.” The Gerudo male frowned down upon the feminine figure who cleaned her two blades coated with blood, polishing them with an old grey handkerchief with pre-existing blood stains upon the corners and seams. They sat upon the roof of the Hateno inn, Inglis’ cape blowing in the breeze and disguising their figures in the dim crescent moonlight.

“Nay, nay, worry not, Inglis—my holy empress, the King of Thieves,” Yara laughed sarcastically at her own words, sheathing her blades into the scabbards upon her belt. “They say the blood of a goddess makes you stronger.”

“And you’re willing to test that theory?” Inglis asked, half-disgusted as he waved a hand in front of his nose as if he was smelling something foul.

She grabbed the handkerchief and wrung it into a waterskin half-full with mead. “‘Course I am.”

“I don’t think it’ll taste good.”

“‘Course it won’t, i’m not a cannibal—I only _kill_. That’s why I’m disguising it with the taste of alcohol.”

“Crazy alcoholist,” he said suddenly.

“Chicken shit,” she replied, grinning as she twisted the cap of the waterskin and shook it vigorously.

“Just get it over with before Eris finds out they’re here.”

She nodded, then proceeding to down it with a few heavy gulps—and Inglis watched as her the peak of her throat bobbed up and down with each sip. She then sat there, staring at her hands for a while as she began to flex and stretch her fingers in their tight leather gloves.

“Well?” Inglis questioned.

She laughed. Her eyes widened as she stared up at him as he looked down upon her questionably. “Oh _yeah_ ,” She practically moaned, her hands going to scathe over her throat and then to her jawline in pleasure. She smiled, pulling her lip with her fingers as her eyes slipped close and she moaned, yet again. “I can feel it.”

Inglis laughed at the joke.

* * *

They seemed to lose themselves to time. Each sunrise and sunset closed the distance between them and another day.

She knew that no day's feelings could last forever; everything seemed to pass fluently without fail in the construct that defined the realm, and it was beautiful. She knew everything would come to an end, eventually—difficulties would arise along with those already impending... but she was okay with that.

So long as he were by her side.

He was the sole reason she began to love certain parts of her life that she tended to despise, even mornings.

She used to hate them, for a sole reason—being that they reminded her of whenever she would wake from her eternal slumber within the castle, her eyes opening to view nothing but calamatious darkness, her body begging for freedom only to be withheld within Ganon's physical embodiment cocooned within the peak of the castle by chains and shackles binding her stature.

She loved mornings, now, because they meant new horizons, new journeys for the pair—reminding her that, although scars never fully disappear, they did heal and eventually fade, dwindling to mere remnants with time, alike those upon his and her own skin and the Kingdom which continued to slowly rebuild itself and traverse from its past.

Mornings now meant scrumptious breakfasts, each delivering a unique, pleasantly intoxicating scent which lingered to her bedroll wherever they rested; in tents, in the cottage, in inns—possessing her to the very point that her body would move on its own accord, involuntarily against her sleep-stricken thoughts, running down stairs or to the outside where Link awaited her with a plate with steaming hot food and tea, having already finished his own servings.

Mornings now meant holding hands and warm, soft embraces; as reaching for each other during their nightmares and merely  _holding_ each other eventually evolved. She craved more within her limitations, allowing it to become the light tracing and lacing of her petite fingers upon the scars and contours of his physique, mainly, his chest underneath his loose-fitting shirt which he specifically wore to allow her such ministrations. He eventually began reciprocating her gestures—lightly drawing figure eights on the small of her back and looping his arms beneath hers to envelop her upper body and pull her closer, inhaling her smell of grass, leather and oiled parchment paper from preserved books.

Mornings now meant being with each other, holding each other—the lingering of their intertwined hands whenever one was predestined to leave, and the reaching for each other whenever they were to return.

Mornings also meant an abundance of other things; waking from her persistent nightmares only to forget them like an amnesiac, involvement in her swordsmanship and archery along with her studies which she bowed and cowered over on the floorboards or the grass outside—her head in books, parchment maps and the Sheikah Slate—but they all mattered too little, the most important part of her mornings was always  _him._

"How does it look?" Zelda asked him nervously as he sheathed his sword in its scabbard, watching the last locks of gold fall from her shoulders onto the grass around them.

He was thankful for the warmth of the afternoon spring-bound breeze, as the small blush which painted his cheeks, the tip of his nose and the point of his ears couldn't really be distinguished from the weather or his own jurisdiction—at least, to her. He sat cross-legged in front of her, opening his mouth to speak but unable to find the right words that would suffice. "It's very... you."

"Me?" She echoed his words, filled with question and curiosity.

"I mean—it suits you," he said quietly. He leaned forward and wrapped a loose strand of hair around his fingers, tucking it behind her ear.

"Thank you." His hair was now longer than hers, cut just above her shoulders in a neat, fluffed bob. The front had two splits of hair which diminished into two perfectly shaped strands which sat before her ears, perfectly tucked out of her line of sight with two blue clips, the way she liked it. Behind it laid an intricate braid made by his own artful hands; its strands kept slightly longer than the rest of her hair by her request. He ran his fingers through her short locks, admiring both his work and her new look that was different to what he knew.

She blushed, a warm, sunset-pink hue painting her cheeks, and a strange, childish feeling as if there were butterflies in her stomach resting in her core—forcing nervousness to take hold as she began to ramble, "I just felt that I needed a change as well, you know? Summer is coming, too, and it  _does_ get in the way with—“

One of his hands went to cover her ear as the other outreached a finger to press against her lips, halting her explanation. He shook his head and laughed, heartily, cheerfully, teeth-baring and wholesome as it dwindled into a smile.

She raised a hand to shove his away, scolding and crossing her arms. "You're not allowed to cut yours, though," she proclaimed, "I like yours." She insisted on the fact, appreciating the way he kept his locks long, shaggy and somewhat unruly in the messiest way that made him starkly familiar—and she didn’t really _need_ anymore unfamiliarity, despite how good he would probably look with his hair pushed back out of his face. Oh, Goddesses.

“I won’t.”

Time was fluid, she knew, and yet she still fancied herself lucky to be witnessing yet another full moon. She had seen hundreds in her lifetime, over the century, each just as beautiful as the other as the sky filled itself with a galaxy homed with glistening stars which illuminated a pure blue and white overcast upon the Kingdom-- _her_ Kingdom. For all she knew, the last moon viewing she could recall could always be her last at any given moment.

She stared up at the bright sphere partially shrouded with dark cloud as she rode her horse toward the pivot of the Kingdom; her hips gently swaying from left to right as their two horses slowed from the gait of a canter to a patient trot.

“It’s beautiful,” Zelda breathed, her head turning toward his direction to her left, watching as he pulled back his cloak with his fingers free from the reigns to look upward. The moon glistened in his eyes, and his mouth opened just a fraction to simply _breathe_ at the sight. He never really paid much attention to the scenery.

They neared the Sacred Grounds just before Hyrule Castle and the town, having followed Hylia River upstream to where it trailed from the goddess-bound Lake Hylia all the way toward the castle. The grounds, circular and flat, were now the constructionist’s settlement, it’s surface and surroundings within the dense woodland trees strewn with various tapestry-canvas yurts which smelt of leather, oil and dust, supported with sturdy wooden beams, illuminating the darkness with the fire-lit oil lanterns within.

They were directed toward their temporary lodging—Zelda _insisted_ on having just a tent that was simply weather proof and just enough space for them both given their short visit on their journey toward Gerudo town, but the builders had already decided for them—practically bowing before them as Karson led them in toward the yurt and pinned the tapestry curtain, sealing them from the outside.

Bolson eventually knocked on the wooden beam with delight in his three chronological taps. He parted the curtain, peeking through the shadows to be met with two smiles as he walked over to the pair.

“Oh _baby_ , I absolutely _love_ the new hairdo,” Bolson proclaimed.

She ran toward him, fluid and graceful—Bolson’s arms open and outstretched toward her direction. She practically fell into him then, and he gave her a quick squeeze before pushing her back by the shoulders to look at her face and trace his fingers around her jawline.

“Oh, so perfect, it suits you to an absolute _T_ ,” he said as his fingers crawled into the depths of her hair and cusped the ends. Link watched over Zelda’s shoulder, a shadowed, almost jealous gaze painting over his face which caused Bolson to retreat his contact.

“Calm down, you look a bit judgemental. I see it in your eyes.” Bolson puckered his lips into a smirk and directed his gaze backward toward the yurt curtain. “By the way, baby! We’ve already started work. Without you. Sorry.”

“So I’ve heard and seen,” Zelda smiled.

“My apologies! Y’know—I forgot that is why you came in the first place.”

Bolson gave them… a _tour_. The great remains of the castle town brick-strewn lodgings had now been built up with wooden frameworks, additional blueprints, of sorts, following the originals on paper—which allowed the construction workers to continue building with haste. Zelda's hands grazed upon the oak wooden frames and beams here and there, ridged on the edges and seams with bolts and nails, and she rubbed and tapped her knuckles against their surfaces to test the sturdiness of its facets. To no surprise, a wide smile is painted across her face, like an artistic memoir—and the thanked Bolson tirelessly, almost to the point of getting on her knees and preaching a prayer.

“The workers were insistent on fixin’ the castle first~” Bolson began, his gaze directing toward Zelda as they sat around the low-burning fire in the centre of the town. “Well, the people want their Queen, I suppose!”

A certain guilt rose in her chest. Yes, she was next in line for the throne given her royal blood. Yes, she knew it had to be done eventually. Yes, she was already taking responsibility and acting as if she had such authority. But the thought of being coronated, a fine crown of gold being placed upon her head within the castle’s throne room where she laid dormant for a century and to then take her place upon the golden chair a tad too big for her after having a blessing bestowed upon her by the Goddesses supposedly residing within the temple of time made it all seem… too soon.

Part of her didn’t want it. Part of her didn’t want to be queen—to be adorned in the Kingdom’s finest jewellery and clothes and never experience a day lacking wealth. Part of her didn’t want the responsibility; the wisdom, courage and power it took to be a true royal, given that she had failed the Kingdom once already. Part of her wanted to be free, to travel and journey to the corners of the Kingdom with only enough thoughts and worries for herself and _him_. It was unbecoming of her to even _think_ such things, as the final, withering part of herself screamed at her that it was her _duty,_ her _obligation_ to her father and her Kingdom, alongside the Champions whom she all failed. She promised herself that she wouldn’t fail them a second time, and yet—

“I mean, who are they to run around and say, _‘Oh, wah, we have no queen and it’s depressing and unmotivating!’_. We haven’t had a ruler for a century, darling. So tell you what, I told them off! I mean, who are they to boss _me_ around?” He rambled, his hands crossed against his chest as he over-exaggerated his hand gestures. “Only _you_ can do that, sweetie!”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. Truly.” She smiled. “There’s still a few more things I… no, _we_ need to do.”

“Well! It’s time for me to get _leisurely,_ baby! And by that, I mean I need sleep, thank you,” he nodded toward Link and Zelda. “Do stay a while, though.”

She nodded.

* * *

A few days later, she awaited him outside of their yurt lodging, their belongings already organised into knapsacks, the remaining tied to the saddle. “Shall we be off?” She asked, one hand behind her lofty hair as she held the reigns of his horse in the other.

“Where?” Link asked sheepishly, still half asleep as he ruffled his hair to wake himself.

She tossed him his travellers cloak which he caught mid-air and flung around his shoulders, fastening it at his collarbones. Her short hair blew throughout the breeze and she smiled, proclaiming as if he had forgotten, “South-west.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thank you for reading.  
> I plan to update this regularly (at least once a week) if nothing gets in the way, because I really enjoy writing it.  
> Be sure to leave kudos if you enjoyed it, and leave a comment to give me feedback/tips.  
> If you like, perhaps follow my tumblr (breathofthewilderness) where I spam and cry over Zelink stuff  
> <3


End file.
